


I Spy…ruffled feathers and unlaced leathers

by thejourneymaninn



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Drinking, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff, Humour, Hurt/Comfort, Infiltration, M/M, Parties, Pining, Spying, brief mentions of violence, not-really-enemies but not-quite-friends to lovers, silliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-29 05:05:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 24,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10847043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thejourneymaninn/pseuds/thejourneymaninn
Summary: A vital mission. The future of Kirkwall is at stake. But fear not, for it is in the hands of our most competent, ahem, team.Hawke sends Fenris and Anders off on a job together. A job that may or may not be an infiltration mission lasting several weeks. What could possibly go wrong when these two try their hands at sneaking and subterfuge?Needless to say, they’re driving each other crazy, but there’s no way around it: If they want to finish the job (and preferably get out of it alive), they’ll have to work together. And despite a few hiccups, they seem to be slowly getting the hang of this whole team-thing.(And no, they don’t fancy each other, absolutely not, what are you talking about? Fenris does not like the mage’s smile. And Anders would rather kiss a Broodmother than the broody elf. This is all just for the sake of the mission! No longing gazes here whatsoever. Nope.)





	1. Insufficient Skill

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AndrastesKnickerweasel (AndrastesKnickerweasle)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndrastesKnickerweasle/gifts).



> Prize for @teamblueandangry’s birthday giveaway on tumblr for the lovely @Andrastesknickerweasel. She asked for Anders and Fenris going on an undercover mission and gave me this [amazing prompt ](http://andrastesknickerweasel.tumblr.com/post/157057713911/also-for-the-meme-i-am-procrastinating-what/) .

Fenris rolled his eyes for the – he had lost count of how many times it had been, but probably enough to cause serious brain damage if he didn’t stop right about now. Especially considering how _hard_ he was rolling them.

Unfortunately, stopping wasn’t going to be an option any time soon.

The source of his exasperation was blissfully unaware (or, just as likely, didn’t care) of the grief he was causing him. No, the absurdly tall mess of pomp and feathers was currently too busy muttering inane curses involving Andraste, her presumed undergarments and small wildlife while jumping around on one leg, scraping the sole of his shoe against every object in sight to get rid of whatever it was he had stepped in _this time_ , utterly devoid of grace, coordination, and – of course – silence.

The mage was here and every single creature in this forest knew it. Whether they wanted to or not.

Ignoring the possible risk to his health, Fenris added another eye roll to the count. What had Hawke been thinking? To send him on a mission with _Anders_ , the human-shaped silence repellent, the one person in their group who was incapable of shutting up for more than five seconds. And as if the incessant stream of babbling that poured out of his mouth with all the restraint of a flooding river weren’t enough, his body seemed to have no concept of “quiet” either. Long limbs never keeping still, there was always fidgeting, always some scratching, tapping, or rustling.

“Well, someone has to dismantle the barriers and deal with the glyphs,” Hawke had said, all cheery-faced optimism.

_Bah._ Wouldn’t do them much good if they were sliced in half along the way because a certain mage didn’t pay attention to where he put his giant feet. And if this mission was really of such “vital importance for the safety of the city and Aveline’s career”, why had Hawke insisted that Fenris accompany the long-limbed cacophony? Why not Isabela? Stealth was her element. She had spying down to an art, whereas he was halfway decent at best. But then again, compared to Anders, Fenris was a master of the craft.

Behind him, the mage was making cooing noises at whatever furry creature he thought was “almost like a cat” this time. Of course. Another burst of enthusiasm that would turn into another string of bewildering expletives as soon as he stepped into their apparently not cat-like enough excrements. Or got bitten.

Hissing that they didn’t have all day – which was correct, as Hawke hadn’t tired of pointing out, it was important that they stuck to his overcomplicated schedule – Fenris pushed through the underbrush without looking back. The man was insufferable. And sometimes, amusing. But mostly insufferable.

He might have let the branches snap back with a little more force than necessary.

 

“Ouch! Hey! Could you maybe not waltz through here like an Ogre in heat? I could have lost an eye!”

“How was I supposed to know you would _actually_ be right behind me? But I am glad you have decided to keep up. For once.”

“Well,” Anders said, pouting as he channelled a bit of healing magic into his scratched-up face, “you’re hardly giving me an incentive to stay close. What in the Maker’s name is your problem? This place is lovely. No Darktown stench, no Templars, no Tal-Vashoth, just green trees, fresh air and pretty flowers. Excuse me for enjoying the view instead of mindlessly pressing on like a slave driver.”

Alright, that last bit might have been a tad too much…

If the elf’s balled fists were anything to go by, he could count himself lucky if the next thing that hit him was merely another branch and not, well, a whole tree. Fenris could probably rip one of those right out of the ground, roots and all, with those muscles flexing beneath the clingy leather and his just absurd amount of energy. Why wasn’t he even _sweating_?! They had been walking all blighted day, and Anders was way more aware of his legs than he ever wanted to be. He was also a red-faced, sticky, wheezing lump of greasy hair and body odour, whereas the bloody elf still looked as fresh and untouched by the elements as he had when they stepped out of the inn. But did anyone ever suspect _him_ of Blood Magic?! No, _he –_

His thoughts were interrupted by another hiss.

“In case you forgot, Hawke’s moronic plan follows a tight schedule. Which _we_ have to stick to. So I suggest you keep up. _And_ I suggest you…watch your step. And your face.”

Stupid elf and his stupid, controlled disdain. Impossible to get a rise out of. Anders heaved a sigh as he sidestepped another catapulted twig. Fenris was right, of course, on both the time-sensitive and the moronic part. Not to mention the unspoken “why am I even bothering with this” part. Why indeed… So Hawke couldn’t go himself because he was “too well-known”. Granted, he might have had a point there. After that stunt at Chateau Haine, he could hardly hope to infiltrate another party held in similar circles. And he wasn’t the most, well, subtle person in the first place, so even without that notoriety….

Alright, he definitely had a point. _But_ he also had several other friends who were well-versed in sneaking and deception, and an overexcited lover who enjoyed parties and happened to be a _mage_ , so why in the name of Andraste’s overflowing underwear drawers had he chosen to send him and _Fenris_? While it was true that Anders generally appreciated every excuse to get out Kirkwall for a while (fresh air aside, Justice always seemed to relax as soon as the city disappeared from view, as if some sort of…pull had been lifted), _this_ was a disaster waiting to happen. That man was impossible to work with! On bad days, he was impossible to even be in the same _room_ with….

And yes, alright, maybe there had been fewer bad days lately, what with Diamondback and the elf actually inviting him along and talking to him like he had forgotten Anders was a mage. And maybe they’d shared a couple of meals on their journey here, with the elf offering him his leftovers when Anders had once again devoured his own food in one go. And maybe they’d stayed up to play cards and the elf had, Maker be his witness, even smiled a few times…and maybe he actually looked quite lovely when he smiled, but…

_But_ that didn’t change the fact that most of the time, he didn’t smile. Most of their days were still of the decidedly not-so-good variety, especially when they were out on a job with Hawke and the others. Of course, it was probably harder to forget Anders was, in fact, a mage when he was swinging a staff and freezing bandits. More often than not, to save the elf’s ungrateful little arse. Hawke had to step between them on almost every mission; how could he possibly think _this_ was a good idea? Just the two of them, with no backup and the most outlandish, complicated plan Anders had ever had the displeasure of being a part of.

Step one: sneak into the estate of some reclusive noble, drug everyone and steal his invitation. Step two: Use said invitation to walk right through the front gate of a blighted _fortress_ , spend two days fooling the other guests into thinking you belong there until the night of the big ball, when you, while everyone else is on the dancefloor, step three: sneak off, break into the vault, steal the documents Aveline needs to prove some grand political scheme (and “something shiny” for Hawke) and then step four: return to the ball, spend another night and day at the party as though nothing happened and at last, walk right out the front gate and into the sunset.

And there it was, the plan, in all its foolish glory, complete with codenames so ridiculous Anders would, under different circumstances, have loved them. Under these specific circumstances, all they made him do was curse. The question wasn’t what could go wrong; it was what _couldn’t_ go wrong. Hawke was an idiot for thinking this could possibly work – and they were even bigger idiots for having let him talk them into it.

Once again, the elf rudely intruded on his thoughts. “We are almost at the cave that leads to the tunnels. I suggest you stay quiet. If that is within your capabilities.”

Alright, that did it. “Within my capabilities? Oh, I’ll be quiet alright. I’ll show you just how quiet I can be, you…”

“Impressive proof.”

“Oh, just shut up,” Anders snapped.

“I shall indeed. And you might consider taking your own advice.”

This time, Anders contented himself with unleashing his full repertoire of rude gestures at the elf’s back. He was fairly certain Fenris noticed but _of course_ , he showed no reaction beyond a slight increase of tension in his shoulders. There was just no winning with him. Apparently, Anders was nothing more than an irritating bug you half-heartedly tried to swat away every now and then, not even important enough to yell at.

This was going to be a long trip indeed.

With a final sigh, he followed the elf into the unpleasant smell and darkness of the cave. Just what exactly had Hawke been thinking?


	2. Operation “Nesting Nug”

It took an awful amount of stumbling and dead ends but at last, just when Fenris had been about to give up, they found the hidden entrance to the estate’s escape tunnels. Naturally, the mage hadn’t managed to keep his mouth shut for more than ten minutes, but Fenris had to admit, in the humid near-dark around them, his babbling had been an…almost welcome distraction. Although he could have done without being blamed for every single wrong turn they took - because finding the correct route through an unfamiliar underground labyrinth was apparently _his_ responsibility. Yet while the constant grousing didn’t make him roll his eyes any less (if anything, the frequency increased), Fenris had decided to cut the mage some slack. On this one occasion. If complaining made it easier for him, so be it. He remembered the Deep Roads, and how much Anders hated being underground, all too well…. And considering he could practically _smell_ the man’s nervousness, Fenris strongly suspected “hated” to be code for “feared”. It was only going to get worse now that they had abandoned the relatively spacious natural caverns for the narrow tunnels that led to the mansion. Here, they truly had to be silent.

At least in theory. In reality, they hadn’t even turned the first corner and Anders had already managed to trip, cough, and set off loose rocks on not one, not two, but six occasions. And that had been _after_ he had torn his stupid coat trying to wriggle his way through the entrance (which admittedly seemed to have been built with someone of a less impressive physique in mind.)

_Splash_.

Of course he would step right into a puddle. Useless. With all the noise he was making, there was hardly a point in not talking. They might as well have kicked down the door singing the Chant of Light. Or that mabari song Hawke liked so much.

_Umph. Umph. Umph._

And here he was hopping on one foot – _again_ – trying to shake the water out of his boot.

“Festis bei umo canavarum.”

“What was that? A demonic incantation? Admit it, you’ve been a blood mage all along….I bet Merrill is that mysterious sister of yours.”

At least Fenris had been muttering under his breath. Anders didn’t even _try_ to whisper. Or…was that his version of trying? In that case, all hope was truly lose.

“Yes, Mage, and her Keeper is my daughter. All elves are related. I said ‘You will be the death of me’. Which might sadly prove true. Unless, of course, I kill you first.” He shook his head in disbelief as Anders’ foot landed squarely in the middle of a field of giant mushrooms (How could he have possibly missed those? Just how blind were humans really?) filling the tunnel with the echo of their squelching demise. “How you managed to escape the Circle even once is a mystery to me.”

“Oh, I had my ways. That one time, I swam all across the lake. Right under their noses too. They couldn’t jump in after me with all that clunky armour, just stood there shouting while I made for the shore – in broad daylight and for every mage to see.”

“That…does sound like you.”

“Dashing and brave? I agree.”

“Brazen and rash. You cannot do anything quietly, can you? No wonder they caught you, what, six times?”

“Well, what matters is the one time they didn’t.”

“You mean when the Wardens took you in and the Templars were forced to give up their hunt for you? Somehow, I do not imagine that confrontation to have been a _quiet_ one.”

This section of the tunnels was less narrow than the ones before. They seemed to be getting closer to the cellars. Apparently, Anders didn’t consider this sufficient reason to lower his voice. If he even noticed.

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business. And you’re one to talk. As if you hadn’t tripped over that root back in the forest. I would know, I’m the one who had to heal that sprained ankle.”

“That was one time,” Fenris hissed, crossing his arms in front of his chest and glaring at the mage. “I never claimed to specialize in stealth, but unlike you, I…”

“No, _you’re_ usually more for barging in, calling out your targets name and then killing everyone,” Anders said casually, an innocent smile on his face,

“Do you wish to discuss _your_ battle cries?” Fenris asked, mimicking the mage’s demeanour in both sweetness and the poison that lay beneath.

“Why, because you _do_ want to see what’s underneath these robes? You know, I always suspected…”

Fenris’ arm shot forward, trying to pull the mage back before he - took a step to the side? Apparently, he _had_ noticed the trap in front of them (or perhaps the Maker hadn’t stopped intervening after all).

“See,” Anders exclaimed triumphantly, “I am perfectly capable of watching my step. I can take care of myself.” His face all smug haughtiness, he crossed his arms in front of his chest and leaned against the wall.

Or rather, against a lever triggering the alarm.

 

In any other situation, Fenris would have delighted in the mage’s widening eyes, or the way all colour drained from his face. Unfortunately, their current circumstances didn’t allow such simple pleasures. And of course, _now_ Anders was silent, frozen to the spot, staring at Fenris as though he expected _him_ to perform magic.

A curse on his lips, he grabbed the mage’s hand and pulled him back down the tunnel, along his path of destruction and into a narrow side-passage. A dead-end, as their former stumbling around had revealed, blocked by a rockslide, but if he recalled correctly, the rubble lay almost directly behind a curve in the tunnel. If they managed to squeeze against the wall, to make themselves small, whoever came searching for them might be fooled into thinking the place was empty. If they walked far enough to see the rubble but not far enough to see them hiding behind the corner. And if they looked from the right angle. Too many ifs, yet it was their only hope. He could already hear the echo of armoured feet stomping down stairs. They wouldn’t make it back to the cave in time, and even if they did, there was just as much risk of being spotted out in the forest. If not more.

The end of the tunnel. Yes, there was a corner…Venhedis, it was even closer to the rubble than he’d thought. Not enough room to stand next to each other; they’d have to…

“Make yourself small,” he whispered as he pressed the mage against the wall, trying to flatten their bodies as much as possible.

For once, Anders seemed to understand what was at stake. Trapped between Fenris, the wall, and the debris to his right, he showed no resistance. He even seemed to be trying to follow Fenris’ advice, ducking his head and bringing his left arm as far away from the end of the wall as possible. Fenris could feel his fingers pressing into his hip…and it was only then that he realized the mage’s other hand was still in his own, holding on for dear life with a grip much stronger than a man this gangly should have been capable of. Even if he could manage to persuade Anders to let go, there was simply nowhere else to put his hand. He’d have to live with it, for now, clammy and cold as the mage’s fingers were. Quite unlike the rest of his body, which was radiating heat, trembling ever so slightly as Anders was breathing with exertion, fear or…something else…It was hard to concentrate with the mage’s lips so close to his own, warm air stroking his skin with every exhale. Anders’ eyes were wide and unmoving, as if some kind of spell had fixed them on Fenris’ face. He could feel a shiver run through the mage’s body, his chest, his stomach, could feel his legs twitching with each rapid breath. Were they as loud as they seemed to Fenris’ ears, or was it the pounding of his own heart that resounded in them? He could barely make out their pursuers’ steps, or their voices, closer now, narrowing in, the sound of, boots, of…rocks falling after a deafening _SNAP_ , and a string of expletives (not nearly as creative as Anders’ repertoire).

“Maker’s breath, _every single time_. I swear, even the blighted nugs know their way around the traps better than you. Why are we always on patrol together?”

Fenris couldn’t decipher the mumbled response she was getting, but he certainly sympathized with her sigh. Or he would have, had he still been capable of clear thought. Anders’ gaze was still glued to his face, pupils blown wide and of a depth you could wade in forever. This close, his eyes were the colour of…was there anything as warm and soft? He couldn’t remember having ever seen this combination, this particular hue, shades of honey and home, with specks of gold…Or that of his hair, sticking to his forehead in a damp crown of sunlight and copper. His hand itched to reach out and tuck it behind his ear, smooth it out of his bewildering eyes, and he just about managed to remind himself that they shouldn’t _move_.

The voices were getting closer still, passing the tunnel, just a few feet away. He could feel Anders hold his breath, feel the trembling in his body increase. Every single shiver sent a hundred little shocks down Fenris’ spine. He had to focus, ready himself to attack in case they were spotted, but the mage was so warm, vibrating with life and fear, his scent, this sweet mix of sweat and dirt and Anders, so distinct, even in the damp, mouldy tunnels…

Footsteps, passing them by a second time.

“Alright, there’s no one here, probably just another critter. Let’s get back before our stew gets cold. Try not to trigger any more traps on the way back, will you?”

More footsteps and indignant huffing, receding. A breath of relief, his own, and Anders’ mingling, tickling his skin.

They hadn’t been spotted. The plan could still work.

They remained pressed against each other, quietly, just to be safe. As the guards kept walking back towards the cellars, the mage’s breathing slowed, and the trembling was replaced by his teeth worrying his bottom lip. His eyes left Fenris’ face to flit across the ceiling. When they finally heard the door close behind the guards, Anders let go of his hand. Fenris’ stepped away from the warmth of his body and, several moments of incredibly uncomfortable silence later, cleared his throat.

“We should move on.” He levelled a glare at the mage, more for protocol than out of real irritation. “Perhaps you could consider not sounding any more alarms?”

With that, he turned on his heel and led them back to where they had started.

 

Dank, dank, dank, dank, smelly, narrow, mouldy – so much for a change from Darktown. These blighted tunnels were endless, even more so as they’d had to walk several of them twice. Which wasn’t his fault. This place wasn’t meant for someone of his size and eyesight; he’d barely even managed to squeeze through the entrance. No wonder the elf was better at finding his way around here. But then again, he was better at everything, wasn’t he? Better at sneaking, better at handling pointy weapons, better at making friends (Maker knows _why_ ), better at gambling, better looking – wait, what? Andraste’s garters, this place was getting to him!

Not surprising, really. Add a few Darkspawn, and Wardens mocking your cat, and you almost had an exact replica of the Deep Roads. Although he admittedly didn’t recall any cuddling in hidden nooks taking place down there. Well, at least not for him. No elf manhandling him against (or almost _into_ ) walls, no eyes, of a green so deep it reminded him of the forest staring at him, for once not filled with contempt but wide and vulnerable. For all the force with which it held him in place, the elf’s body had been almost…yielding. And the way Fenris’ fingers had soothed the back of his hand, as if comforting him was the most natural thing in the world….For a moment there, Anders had almost forgotten that he hated crammed, dark places. Almost. Still…it wasn’t quite as bad with someone at his side. At least he wasn’t alone in this mess.

And speaking of upsides, they seemed to be getting closer to the cellars. The tunnels in this section were wider and at least slightly better maintained, with more dust than mould and support beams and cobwebs replacing puddles and mushrooms. To their right was a door to what he suspected to be a storage room. He opened it – just a crack – and risked a peek. Ah yes, grimy crates, hideous vases, eye-peeling paintings, statues with missing limbs. Apparently, they had reached the estate’s last refuge for its unwanted (understandably so) belongings.

He sneezed as dust tickled his nose, which earned him another of the elf’s death glares. Maker, someone should turn those into a weapon; it would be at least as effective as shooting lightning at fools. Not that _he_ was the fool in this scenario, no, absolutely not.

To his surprise, Fenris’ reaction came in the form of a sigh instead of his usual hiss.

“Is there truly not a single part of you that is capable of being quiet?”

Anders raised a mocking eyebrow (although the effect was somewhat ruined by another sneeze). “You do realize this question is only going to provoke bowel noises?”

For the umpteenth time, the elf rolled his eyes and refrained from further commentary. Arrogant prick, he….wait…was that…? Probably just a shadow, but for a moment there, Anders could have sworn Fenris looked amused. It lasted all but two seconds, then he turned around and briskly resumed walking.

“The cellars should be up ahead.”

“You don’t say.”

And there was eye roll number 538. A small wonder he hadn’t gone cross-eyed yet. Well, if he managed to get a few more out of him, perhaps Fenris would at least wake up with the Broodmother of all headaches tomorrow. Now if Anders could only…

“Are you…trying to fart on purpose?” Fenris gave him a sideways look that could only be described as incredulous. Apparently, Anders’ squirming hadn’t been as discreet as he’d thought.

“Well, I did sort of promise you an intestinal concert. I’d hate to let you down. And hey, back in the Circle, I used to be able to produce the Chant of Light on command…but it seems I’m losing my Maker-given gifts in my old age.”

“Evidently.”

Again, probably just a shadow.

 

Crouching behind one of the shelves in the larder, they were waiting for their “special ingredient” to take effect. Anders still wasn’t sure just why exactly they had to drug the whole household. After all, the reason the mansion’s owner had been chosen as a target in the first place was that, as a legendary hermit, he made a point of never attending any of the grand events his wealth and lineage entitled him to. Which meant no one knew what he looked like. In Anders’ book, it also meant simply stealing the invitation and few clothes should be more than sufficient, but Hawke had insisted they take no risks. What if someone did notice the missing invitation and sent a raven in warning? Or worse, what if he decided this was the one event in twenty years he’d actually attend? Better to incapacitate him and his staff for the duration of the festivities.

“A few days of drowsiness and hallucinations are a small price to pay for Kirkwall’s safety, wouldn’t you agree?”

Well, sure, if you weren’t the one paying it… Or the one who had to sneak into the kitchen, paralyse the cook, drug him and the food without anyone noticing, and lock him up until the drug kicked in. Alright, technically, he’d only been in charge of the glyphs. Fenris had taken care of the rest, yet following the elf’s staunch back – not to mention that annoying finger, always held up in warning – through half of the ground floor on tiptoes had been enough of a challenge in its own right. Twice, they’d almost been caught, and hiding in an overstuffed closet was only marginally preferable to hiding in a musty cave. Granted, it hadn’t felt quite as crowded, but Fenris’ body had been just as warm with a few more inches between them, his hair still so silky even after a day of dust and grime, tickling Anders’ neck whenever one of them shifted.

And once the danger had passed, he’d glared at him with just as much irritation.

Anders sighed softly, which resulted in an elbow being jabbed into his ribs. He should have kicked Hawke’s arse when he’d suggested this farce of a job. In fact, he would do just that. If they made it out in one piece.

 

When it started to get dark outside, Anders was certain enough time had passed for the potion – one of Isabela’s…he really didn’t want to know more – to have taken effect. And more than enough for his body to have turned into an aching, tingling heap. He said as much to Fenris as he clumsily got back to his feet, shaking his legs to expel the ants crawling underneath his skin. The elf nodded, but stepped into his path when Anders made his hobbling way towards the door.

“I shall go upstairs on my own.”

“What? Why?”

“You will never manage to get that far without alerting anyone. It is best you stay here.”

Anders planted his hands on his hips in pure indignation, momentarily distracted from the pain in his legs. “They’re all completely out of it! What harm could I _possibly_ do?”

“I am afraid that lies beyond the limits of my imagination. Nevertheless, I am certain you would find a way.” There it was again, that annoying smirk, the slight twinkle in his eyes as if somewhere behind that mask, he was laughing at some private joke no one else was let in on…

Oh, why was he even bothering with this? If the elf wanted to walk into danger all by himself, then by all means. Not Anders’ problem. Bloody, stubborn fool.

“Fine. I’ll just take a nap, then. Wake me if you make it back alive. And keep your rotting corpse away from me if you don’t.”

With that, he stalked back to the shelf they’d been hiding behind, arranged his coat on the floor and grabbed a sack of flour for a pillow. If he was oh-so-useless, he might as well get some rest out of it.

Some time (minutes? hours?) later, he was shaken awake by a – well, not quite a rotting corpse, but Fenris was definitely more than a little dishevelled, and…singed.

Still busy rubbing sleep out of his eyes, it took Anders a moment to process the sight. Once he had, he burst out laughing, hard enough to make him tumble back down onto his makeshift bed.

“What…what happened to you?” he wheezed between giggles.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Fenris’ grumbled reply only served to make Anders double over again. “Just admit it - you could have used help. More specifically, _my_ help.”

There was the briefest of pauses before Fenris said, “We should move on.”

 

Venhedis, he should have kicked Hawke out of his mansion when he’d suggested this foolish mission. And this foolish ‘partner’. The man was an insufferable fool. Even if his laughter sparkled like droplets of sunshine.

 


	3. Operation “Swooping Hawk”

“You picked _those_?”

Anders’ case for the front door had been ignored, meaning they’d left the house the way they had entered it. After a short trek through the moonlit forest, they’d reached a brook where they could get cleaned up and changed.

“Maker, I knew I shouldn’t have let you go up there alone.”

Anders turned the garments Fenris had tossed at him over in his hands, not bothering to soften the disdain on his face. Granted, he hadn’t seen their victim’s wardrobe, but surely there must have been something better than _this_ …

“Fashion advice from the sewers? I am all ears,” Fenris said, voice dripping with sex, eh, sarcasm. “If you’d rather go unclothed, suit yourself.”

With that, he disappeared behind the trees, obviously unwilling to let Anders see him undress. Probably for the best, things were awkward enough without adding a striptease. And in all honesty, Anders could do without exposing the sorry state of his smalls himself. Thus, still staring at his new clothes in horror and disbelief, he slunk behind a tree of his own and began putting on what deserved the label “abomination” a lot more than he ever would.

So they’d look like fools. Which was quite fitting, actually, considering they _were_ fools. On a foolish mission foolishly given to them by the king of all fools. Well, at least the sight of Fenris in this nightmare of poof and colours would provide him with an excellent excuse to laugh at him. And he was planning to make use of it. Excessively. As for himself…he’d just have to avoid mirrors for the next few days. He wasn’t at all happy with the thought of having to stash his own clothes in a nearby cave, though. Andraste’s tasteful nightgowns be his witness, if someone stole his coat, he would set Hawke’s beard on fire.

 

The costumes, the noise, the empty chatter, the _people_. The way their gazes lingered on his ears, their false smiles, as empty and treacherous as a Tevinter masquerade. _Uggh_. Three days of this. And then at least another three weeks to get back to Kirkwall. Although he had to admit, the journey here hadn’t been as bad as he’d feared. Hawke had equipped them with enough coin for decent inns that, unlike the Hanged Man, served wine that actually deserved the name and enough food to keep Anders’ mouth blessedly occupied. And apparently, in some establishments, shouting and brawling weren’t part of the daily routine. The more you knew. Combined with the soothing sounds of minstrels in the background, the polite murmurs of the others guests had created a cosy atmosphere which on a few occasions had actually relaxed the mage enough so that they could have something that almost resembled a conversation. With no sneers or needling. Well, less needling, in any case. Most nights, they’d even played a few rounds of cards before retiring to their respective rooms. The mage had lost just about every single game, useless as he was.

Although he _had_ gotten them into the castle.

At the guard’s interrogation Fenris’ mind had completely frozen. They had an invitation; why was there still need for talking?! Fortunately, Anders had immediately taken over, spinning the most outrageous lies with a smile on his face, his voice never once wavering from its confident, friendly tone. Fenris had been left to gape in disbelief. Internally, of course. He knew better than to let his emotions show. And as much as he hated the memory of how he had acquired this particular skill, it had served him well. Without his ability to control his expression, he’d leave their nights of Wicked Grace with an empty purse. Like the mage did. Every single time. Anders just couldn’t keep his emotions off his face; his expression betrayed every flicker of confidence, every twitch of frustration. Yet it would seem he wasn’t quite so hopeless when it came to putting on false ones. His stories – ridiculous, preposterous stories no one in their right mind would ever believe – had opened the gates for them.

It had been the second biggest surprise of the day. The _biggest_ one was that the mage hadn’t said, “Well, look who’s useless now” afterwards.

At least not with words. His smug grin was another matter.

Considering the whole plan hinged on walking through the front gate undetected, Fenris supposed he should be grateful. But since it also hinged on successfully mingling with the other guests, all he felt was the desire to down a bottle of wine in one go. Or better yet, a cask.

 

Since Fenris seemed oblivious to discreet nudging, Anders made sure to flash the couple they’d been talking to his sauciest wink before he put his arm around the elf’s waist in a deliberately obvious gesture and gently steered him towards the buffet.

“We shouldn’t stay with the same people for too long. The more we talk, the greater the risk one of us…” Yes, that pause was completely intentional and judging by the glare he received, Fenris knew what was about to follow. “…says something stupid.”

Instead of a reply, he got an elf abruptly tearing himself out of their semi-embrace and stalking off with a muttered “I need a drink.”

With a sigh, Anders strolled along after him at a leisurely pace, absentmindedly straightening his cuffs. He had to admit, for all their abominable ugliness, the clothes Fenris had chosen were of a pleasant, silky-soft material. And they actually fit rather nicely. Somehow, the elf had managed to perfectly gauge his size. Well, at least he was good for _something_.

For the past few hours, Anders had been lying and charming for the both of them. Fenris was so completely useless at this, it was almost impressive. How was anyone supposed to believe this prickly lump of sourdough was his lover?

Fenris had dissolved into a red-faced, spluttering coughing fit when Anders had introduced him as such. Ah, fond memories. And well, it was his own fault; he had refused to pose as his servant. Which, in retrospect, was probably for the best. His permanent scowl didn’t exactly scream “loyal employee”. And neither did his curt, sullen remarks. Maker, the stuff that came out of his mouth… Anders had lost count of how many times he’d had to lean in conspiratorially after Fenris had affronted yet another bejewelled noble.

“Please excuse him. He’s not usually like this…He’s just so nervous because he’s planning to propose after the big ball. He thinks I don’t know, but of course I do.”

_Or_

“It’s my fault, really. I got him…special undergarments for the occasion, and I’m afraid they itch. He’s been twitchy all day.”

As if these conversations weren’t tiring enough without constantly having to compensate for Fenris’ complete lack of charm. They were supposed to blend in, and in a crowd like this, glaring and tight-lipped stood out like an Ogre in a gathering of dwarves. These people hid their daggers in their smiles, not their sleeves. Come to think of it, probably in both.

Or perhaps poison was the more popular choice of weapon around here.

Keeping their charade up and their interlocutors in good spirits was slowly draining him, and Justice’s disapproval wasn’t making things easier. As always, the spirit had been much more restrained since they’d left Kirkwall (did the memories there haunt him as relentlessly as they haunted Anders? Or was it something else, the Templars, the stench, the despair around them?), but at the sight of all this opulence, he reared his head in an endless litany on wastefulness, inequality and the famished peasants they’d seen in the villages around the castle.

If those were even Justice’s thoughts. It was hard to tell, sometimes, and it wasn’t like Anders didn’t despise this pompous show of gluttony and sloth himself. To think that he’d once dreamt of parading around events just like this one… Back in the Circle, he’d fantasized about wild music, exotic dishes and romantic entanglements, his younger self right in the middle of it all, dancing. Free, welcomed into their world… _the_ world.

Reality wasn’t nearly as enjoyable as his dreams had suggested. Although he supposed some of it _could_ be fun, if you were to experience it with people who hadn’t had their personalities swallowed by centuries of powder and pretence. Now that he thought about it, it was no wonder Fenris didn’t fit in here. The man would rather beat you over the head with the truth than flatter you with a lie, even when the latter was to his advantage. Which was…not such a bad quality, actually. Of course, there was this tiny unfortunate detail that what he considered to be the “truth” usually couldn’t be further from how things really were, but at least he was upfront about it. No sugary smiles there. If you got one, it was genuine. Not that Anders often did, he’d resigned himself to collecting snarls. And he was about to collect another one. After all, their ruse came with certain benefits.

A broad grin on his face, he called after Fenris, “Bring me a drink, sweetheart, will you? You know what I like.”

 

“What do you say, should we take another break from this travesty?” the mage asked, gesturing at the door. “You look about ready to murder the baroness with a candleholder. The library’s not a good place for that.”

“Yes.”

“Alright then, my monosyllabic friend.”

It was Fenris’ turn to cock his head and grin. “Friend?”

“Well, I mean…It’s shorter than ‘person I know and am frequently forced to spend time with’.” Fenris was about to point out that as far as he recalled, he hadn’t _dragged_ him to his mansion for Diamondback, but for once, his scowl seemed to be enough. The mage immediately relented, “Alright, alright, sometimes, it’s ‘choose to spend time with”. Don’t read too much into it. It’s just a matter of efficiency…” After a brief moment of hesitation, Anders’ smug grin fell firmly back into place. “And let’s not forget, what you _really_ are is my lover! My darling elf, the light of my life, my cuddly little kitty…”

A disgusted noise was the only reply this deserved.

 

The mage was still chuckling by the time they reached the gardens. There were just as many people here, but spread out across the maze of courtyards, lawns and hedges, they gathered in small groups rather than one big crowd. It was still impossible to evade all of them, or it would have been, had the mage’s fabrication not provided them with an excellent pretext to excuse themselves. No one seemed to find it even the least bit suspicious when they retired into one of the many little alcoves to “talk.” Not that Fenris would ever wish to _talk_ with him, at least not in the sense Anders’ winks implied, but compared to the other guests, his company was downright pleasant. Somehow, time seemed to pass more quickly listening to him. The stories he told were, if ludicrous, quite entertaining, and he made fun of the nobles, mimicking their voices and accents almost perfectly. He’d even given Fenris half of the food he’d stuffed in bulk into the deep pockets of the hideous outfit he somehow managed to wear with grace. That amount of frills shouldn’t look good on anyone, so how was it that on Anders, the countless layers of fabric and garish colours only served to highlight his stature, the slender frame and endless legs, the streaks of copper in his hair? Hair that had been freed from the confines of its usual tie for the occasion, falling onto his shoulders in soft, gleaming waves… Fenris forcefully shook his head. Venhedis, it was only _hair_. Surely, touching it would feel nowhere near as exciting and fulfilling as his thoughts suggested.

He was merely distracted because there was so…much of it, right in front of his eyes. Since they had to stand close to each other to ensure that anyone stumbling in on them wouldn’t immediately realize they weren’t actually “talking”, there wasn’t really anywhere else to look but the mage’s face. Or, when he was standing upright instead of slumped against the wall, his chest. The man was infuriatingly tall, shooting up from the ground like a majestic tree…a tree smelling of fresh soap and cake, a tree to climb on a hot summer’s day…

A tree that was currently poking his shoulder.

“Are you even listening to me?”

He blinked. “Yes. No. What?”

“I said ‘we’d better head back.’ Private time only works as an excuse for so long – well, unless you’re a Grey Warden, of course, but that’s not exactly an explanation I can bring up here. So, are you done staring into the Void and wishing doom upon all world? There are a lot of people out there who are just _dying_ to meet you and enjoy the pleasure of your charming company…not to mention your silver tongue’s masterful way with words.”

A tree to fell and chop up into firewood.

 

The sun had long set, yet the other guests showed no signs of tiring any time soon. Fenris, on the other hand, was very tired. Tired enough to sleep for a whole week. He wasn’t going to survive _another_ day of this. At this rate, he wasn’t even sure he’d make it to the end of this one. With his head pounding from too much noise and food, he was even worse at dealing with these people. Well, if Anders was to be believed, there was no ‘worse’, but what did he know…Always complaining and criticising. The woman had asked. Why should it be rude to reply?

He scowled at Anders, who was dragging him away, hissing into his ear, “For the love of the Maker, _stop talking_!”

“How is that going to be less ‘rude’? Or less suspicious.”

A few feet away, a man excused himself from the small group he’d been talking to and started walking over to them. There was simply no getting away from these people.

“Just leave that to me.” The mage whispered with a bright smile on his face. And a jab into his ribs Fenris would take his sweet revenge for as soon as they were out of sight. “Be _quiet_!”

Oh, the irony. It was official: the Maker really had a poor sense of humour.

And he hated Fenris.

While Anders and their attacker exchanged empty pleasantries, Fenris stood next to them in his best imitation of a sullen statue. If the mage wanted silence, he could have it. Gladly so. If only he would return the favour. _Ever_.

His stone façade began to crumble when the man suddenly addressed him.

“And what do you think?”

Anders’ intervention came promptly. “I’m afraid he can’t speak.”

“He cannot speak? How terrible!” the man exclaimed in his thick Orlesian accent. “That is so strange…I thought I saw him talking to my cousin earlier…I must have been mistaken…”

“Oh no,” the mage said gravely, “it happened quite recently. He was stung by a bee. Right on his tongue when we were…well, you can imagine the rest. The swelling is horrible!”

“Oh my, what an unfortunate accident! But Serrah, an injury like this should be taken care of. It may seem like a simple thing, but I heard someone died of one just like it at Chateau Haine! Perhaps a few drinks would help reduce the swelling? The bar in the atrium offers a selection of exotic specialities.”

Anders hesitated, but Fenris was having none of it. Never in his life had he been in more dire need of a drink. With a nod that was impossible to ignore, he tugged on the mage’s sleeve.

He got a sigh for his trouble.

_And_ what he wanted.

“Alright, why not…I mean, thank you, that was very considerate of you. What a marvellous idea. It is wonderful to know there are men like you, who keep a clear head in times of crisis. I’ll take him there right away. He could use a little distraction. He gets _so_ broody when things don’t go his way.” Once they were out of earshot, he added, “Just so you know, drinks don’t help cure _anything_. What kind of quacks has he been to? And I’m not coaxing you down from the chandelier if you overdo it.”

Bah. That had been _one_ time. Sandal had taken the blame for it, and Fenris had learned never to bet against pirates. And most certainly not in a drinking contest. No risk of anything like that here. The mage was no competition.

 

“It does indeed make your behind look gigantic. The colour is very unflattering.”

What was _wrong_ with that man? There was a limit to the amount of excuses Anders could come up with. At least he’d listened when Anders had told him to keep his mouth shut…while scowling in the most endearing way. Who would have thought the elf could pout? Or that he looked adorable doing so…

Also, the bar hadn’t been such a bad idea. In fact, it had been an excellent idea. This ale was surprisingly good. Foamy….tingly….warm and fuzzy…like he hadn’t felt in a long time.

Surely, there could be no harm in getting another.

 

Once again, Fenris was left to stare at the mage in disbelief. How could Anders _drink_ this? How could he _enjoy_ something that made your throat feel as though you had indeed sucked on one those fireballs he never shut up about? “Dwarven ale”. No, thanks, Fenris would stick to wine.

Lots and lots of wine.

 

 

His head didn’t hurt any less in the blaring sunlight. On the contrary, it felt as though it was about to explode. And if his hushed tones and scrunched-up eyes were anything to go by, the mage wasn’t feeling any better. He’d been remarkably quiet all morning, barely touching the breakfast that had been brought to their room way too soon after sunrise (in retrospect, Fenris felt sorry for the poor servant), washing himself with surprising speed and leaving the room with a mumbled “Meet me in the gardens when you’re ready”. He’d been out the door before Fenris had even managed to shake off the duvet.

Had he done something to offend Anders? Strike that, he offended the mage just by breathing, so the answer was most certainly yes but…more so than usual? He couldn’t quite recall what had transpired after they’d left the bar. Or even just…leaving the bar. Or how they’d got back to their room. But then again, with this constant, throbbing pain behind his eyelids, it was a miracle he even remembered his name, let alone the fake one he was supposed to be using. If he hadn’t already been grateful that the mage was carrying the bulk of the conversations with the other guests, he’d definitely have been now. Their pretentious drivel hit his head with all the gentleness of a battle-axe. All these innuendos and despicable flirtations, all those pointless questions. And why was there so much…giggling? So many fingers pointing at them with faux discretion, animated whispers poorly concealed behind raised hands?

At first, he’d thought he was imagining things. After all, the conversations seemed to be going in roughly the same fashion as the day before – even if the mage’s smile looked a bit more forced – and it wasn’t as though Fenris had any idea what was considered standard behaviour at events like this. Yet as giggles and murmurs followed them from the gardens to the antechamber, through the library and back into the gardens, Anders began to look worried. Which Fenris considered reason enough to start worrying as well. Had they been found out? But if they had, surely they’d have already been dragged away in chains, not left to wander the grounds at their leisure?

“Mage,” he asked, deciding the situation warranted breaking the silence between them, “is this behaviour…normal?”

“To this extent and with such complete lack of subtlety? I don’t think so. You’d expect them to at least wait until we’re out of the room before they start sneering….You didn’t, by any chance, have some adventures with the chandelier when I wasn’t looking?”

“No.” It wasn’t a lie. At least not to his knowledge. He was absolutely, almost, completely, somewhat certain.

“Hmm. Well, there goes that explanation.”

“Then what is going on here?”

“I have no idea. But I’m going to find out.”

With that, Anders stepped up to a woman they might or might not have talked to before (it was impossible to tell these people apart), flashing her his most dazzling smile. At least Fenris felt completely blinded by it; she seemed less impressed. Perhaps it had merely been the sun getting into his eyes. The mage addressed her by name – so they had spoken to her before – asked after her well-being, unleashed a steady shower of compliments of her hair and attire and, at last, leaned in, an apologetic smile on his face.

“I hope I’m not being to bold…I couldn’t help noticing you were giggling quite animatedly when you saw us approach. Not that joy isn’t most becoming to your divine features, but since you haven’t been the first person to point at us today, I’m worried my partner and I may have done something…unseemly last night. I’m afraid our gracious host’s splendid selection of exotic drinks may have been a touch more potent than we’re used to…”

Although it was obvious the woman was ready to burst into another fit of giggles, she restrained herself to a grin that was just _this much_ on the wrong side of polite.

“Oh? So you do not remember?” The melodic cadence of her Starkhaven accent, charming as it might have been on another occasion, increased the searing pain in Fenris’ head until he could feel it in every single tooth. “ _Such a shame_. You seemed to be having so much fun… dancing through every room and the gardens, with your arms around each other…and I believe at some point, you also attempted a waltz with the statue of our host’s late grandfather. I am not certain whether that was before or after you took a bath in the fountain. Or offered us a look beneath your…robes. Too bad you cannot remember, you were in _such_ good spirits! You were singing, all the time, about our beloved Lady Andraste and…mutts. And about being on a…secret mission… I must admit, I had not heard that particular one before…”

There was no mistaking the look of pure horror on Anders’ face – and if Fenris noticed, so would she. But as it turned out, the mage had meant for her to see it. Either that or he was an exceptionally fast thinker. As Fenris began to frantically scan the room for the best escape route, now that they’d given themselves away, Anders leaned in closer to her and “whispered” conspiratorially, “Oh sweet Maker, these drinks must have been exotic indeed. What a blessing that none of our friends are here! Just think of how our reputation would have been ruined! They think of us as adventurers in the bedroom, connoisseurs of the most daring positions. If they found out we only put on a show for them during our groups’ little gatherings! That in private, we are secret missionary lovers! Just imagine the laughter, the ridicule! Oh, what a scandalous confession to make…But I can’t help it, I love being able to look into his beautiful eyes. And so does he. Isn’t that right, darling?”

“Yes, ahem…” Fenris swallowed, “…his…eyes…” It was hard to focus with the mage looking at him so adoringly anyone would be convinced he meant it. Which was the point, of course. It just didn’t make it any less confusing.

With a soft chuckle, Anders placed an arm around his waist and pulled him against his side.

“I see, you haven’t fully recovered yet, my love.” He buried his nose in Fenris’ hair at the words, rubbing it against the top of his head in a manner so affectionate he couldn’t help but lean into the touch – they had to be convincing, after all, no matter the cost. “No surprise given how…exceptionally intense…last night was.” Fenris could feel his breath, each word like a tender finger tracing along his skin, and then Anders’ lips, planting a fleeting kiss on his hair before he turned his attention back to their interlocutor.

She gave them a tight smile. “You do seem to remember _some_ things…”

“Oh, trust me, you wouldn’t forget him either. No one does….”He gave Fenris’ waist a little squeeze. “No wonder everyone’s ogling him and whispering. Whose imagination wouldn’t run wild when hearing about _his_ private endeavours...?”

“I don’t believe anyone realizes _this_ is what they heard about.” Her eyebrows formed two perfectly plucked arcs high up on her forehead.

“They do not?” Anders exclaimed, all genuine surprise and happiness. “Praise the Maker! As long as our secret is safe, we can endure a little ridicule. Oh, those are wonderful news indeed. Just imagine what would have happened if someone had found out they had their hands on the season’s juiciest piece of gossip… Thank you for setting our minds at ease! And now please excuse me, I should get my lover something to drink…”

“May I suggest water?” She dismissed them with a little wave, her eyes darting across the room. By the time they had reached the refreshment tables, she was nowhere to be seen.

“Let’s hope she’d efficient,” the mage sighed as he began to pour each of them a glass of water. “It won’t stop them from whispering behind our backs, but at least they’ll no longer be wondering what nefarious schemes we’re up to.”

“I cannot believe she bought this nonsense. It was the most ridiculous story I have ever heard. And I spend time with _Hawke_.”

The mage shrugged. “I’d say it was better than what you came up with, which was – oh, right, _nothing_. Who cares if it’s rubbish, these people are vapid and bored, with a taste for cruelty and nothing better to do. They’ll spread it anyway. Give it at an hour and the story of the notorious hermit who is foolishly besotted with his elven lover boy _and_ happens to regularly hold orgies in his secluded, sinful mansion deep in the woods will have been spun into a story fit for one of Varric’s books.”

“So you are an expert on gossip. Fitting.”

Something flickered in the mage’s eyes. When he continued, his mouth was drawn into a taut line. “I’m an expert on a lot more subjects than you’d care to know. And yes, surprise, I do know a thing or two about bored, lonely people who have nothing else to do. Of course, _their_ despair and isolation wasn’t self-chosen.”

‘Desperate and lonely people’? Yes, _Fenris_ knew ‘a thing or two’ about that. The mage had no idea.

Alright, _some_ idea. If what little he’d shared about his time in the Circle was any indication. For someone constantly going on about the subject, Anders was suspiciously tight-lipped when it came to personal experiences. At first, Fenris had thought it was because his complaints were unfounded, yet after years of observing the man, he’d come to suspect that it was because the truth was even worse than what he’d implied. There were things you just couldn’t talk about. Fenris knew a thing or two about that as well. By now, he was fairly certain the Circle was a place he wouldn’t wish on anyone. It was, of course, the only way to ensure people’s safety, but a necessary evil didn’t become a pleasant one simply because it was justified. Nobody asked for their fate. Some things just had to be endured. Still, if Anders was ever brought back there, it wouldn’t be Fenris’ doing. And if he needed help chasing off Templars Fenris would…

But the mage wouldn’t care either way.

He only cared about himself.

…And the mages he smuggled out of the city (foolishly so!).

…And the people he healed. For free, even when he was barely able to stand.

…And Hawke. And everyone Hawke helped.

Fenris let out a soft sigh. No, it wasn’t that simple.

Nothing was ever simple with him.

And this mission was only making things more complicated.

He made to speak, to…explain, but Anders brusquely cut him off.

“Just shut up and drink your water. We only have a few hours to sober up.”

 

Water wasn’t going to do the trick, not if they wanted to be clear-headed enough to sneak into a vault. Preferably undetected. He’d have to use magic. Which he _should_ have done right after they’d woken up, but he’d been too distracted. He’d been so eager to get out of the room, he’d almost tripped over one of the pillows the elf had hurled at the poor, unsuspecting servant who had brought their breakfast. Anders didn’t remember much of the previous night; sometime after the fourth or fifth tankard, the images became hazy. There was definitely nothing about singing or dancing…

What he did remember was that he had slept on the chaise longue, not in the bed next to Fenris. He was clear on that particular detail not only because of his aching back (again, he should have used magic), but also because he recalled, with depressing clarity, how much he had _wanted_ to join him there, how badly he’d longed to crawl up against him and _cuddle_. Andraste’s corset ferrets, what was going on with him lately? The morning had been even worse! Drunk fantasies about spooning were one thing, but when they’d woken up (so _early_ , Blight take them all), Fenris had looked so…adorable, all mussed-up and drowsy, drool on his shirt and sleep in his eyes. It shouldn’t have been cute. Yet Anders’ fluttering stomach adamantly insisted it was.

Well, the elf’s current mood was nowhere near as endearing. There it was again, that condescending tone, like Anders was worth nothing more than the dirt beneath his soles. And that look, his mouth curled up on one side in a barely noticeable slope of disdain. These lips…they were entirely too kissable. And unfortunately, also entirely too vitriolic. The bloody elf would be completely lost without Anders’ help, but gratitude – of course not! He’d rather mock him for some imagined frivolities. For the love of the Maker, Fenris had been a _slave_. He had to know about isolation, about hopelessness and how it brought out the worst (and sometimes the best) in people. And he did, Anders was sure of it. He might not let on much, but sometimes, you could see it in his eyes, his fidgeting, his nervous watchfulness. He should be able to relate. But then again, it didn’t count when it came to mages, did it?

He sighed, firmly shaking his head. He should probably be grateful for this much needed reminder of how the elf felt about him - a foolish, dangerous creature he was currently stuck with.

And would be stuck with for another day. And night. While he could have done without the burning eyes and pounding head, their inebriation had at least washed away the potential awkwardness of having to share a room (and, in theory, a bed). No such luck today, in a few hours, they’d have to go back upstairs and get changed for the ball, and afterwards, they’d be stuck there with each other for another night, this time without the aid of spirits (that choice of words earned him a sensation of grumbling protest in the back of his mind). Now that would certainly go well.

Great, just great. Hawke hated him and wanted to see him suffer; there was no other explanation.

 

On the plus side, the fact that they’d made a mockery of themselves gave them a perfect excuse to seek out more “private time”. With the mage still barely saying a word, it felt drastically different from the ones they’d had the day before. No chatter, no laughter, no scandalous stories, no jibes at the other guests, not even any jibes at _him_ , and while his head welcomed the lack of extra noise, Fenris couldn’t help feeling that something was...missing.

It became even more obvious after Anders had, despite the risk of being discovered, healed them. The genlock’s roar in his skull replaced with the dull echo of an ache, that last residue that magic couldn’t fix, Fenris leaned back against the wall. The mage was as close as he had been the day before, but kept his gaze fixed on the stone above Fenris’ face. Everything around them seemed to be drowned in silence. Figured that the man would learn how to shut up _now_ of all times. He’d still been his usual, loquacious self the night before. In fact, he’d taken his wordiness to a whole new level. The feeling of Anders’ lips against his ear, whispering (well, at least he’d probably thought that was what he was doing) an endless stream of words Fenris could no longer recall was one of the few things that stood out against the fog of his drunken stupor. With shocking clarity.

It had been a night filled with words and laughter – and singing, apparently – but ever since they’d woken up, silence had taken the reins. There had been the annoyingly effusive servant, of course, but Anders had thrown exactly _one_ sentence his way before he left the room. He’d barely even spared him a glance while he went about his business, pale skin and freckles, a dusting of soft hair, glittering with droplets of water as he hastily cleaned himself…. Fenris _had_ spared him a glance. Or two. And all the while, he’d had to fight the impulse to call the mage back to bed. An impulse which was doubly ridiculous as there was no “back”. They hadn’t shared it. Not that Fenris would have wanted to. Anders had chosen to sleep on the sofa, and if Fenris remembered correctly, he hadn’t even started a discussion about it. A night of wonders indeed. Perhaps the mage should drink more often.

Although if Fenris was quite honest…quiet and complacent didn’t really suit him. Anders was anger and passion and fire, and as tiring as his raging-with-no-care-for-odds-or-circumstances could be, at least it was…real. He’d rather burn out than give in. Foolish. And admirable. It was no wonder he always looked so exhausted. Or that he could be exhausting to those around him. Yet for all Fenris had often (always…) prayed for him to shut up, he found he’d rather have him ranting or teasing than like _this_. Tight-lipped and sullen, burning with frost instead of fire. That wasn’t his… _the_ mage.

If only he were better at idle talk…if he could coax him back. But when he had to grasp them out of thin air, with nothing to react to, his words were wooden, clumsy things. He could never quite string them up right, make them sound the way he wanted them to…. And it was even worse when he tried to use them with Anders, who had a habit of hearing what _he_ wanted to, of finding slights where Fenris hadn’t meant to offend.

It didn’t matter either way. As always when he _really_ needed them, there were no words to grasp at all.

 

Eventually, they had to show themselves among the other guests again, and unlike the day before, Fenris was almost relieved to be in their company. At least the mage was talking again. Even smiling, a few times. Although not necessarily at him.

Fenris still didn’t feel at ease among these people, yet tried to mimic their gallant tone exchange of pleasantries as best he could. Because after their drunken escapes, it was vital they made a good impression. And well….Anders looked so exhausted... He had no idea if he was doing it right, but he took the lack of bony mage-elbow in his ribs as a good sign, and the fact that Anders actually lost his composure when Fenris called him “Sweetheart” for the first time as an even better one. The mage covered up his blunder with a prolonged coughing fit, at the end of which he threw Fenris a grin that was…well, not lovely, certainly, but…somehow…nice.

Perhaps the hours until the ball began would not be so unbearable after all.

 

It was almost time to go upstairs and change into whatever other eyesore Fenris had chosen as their festive attire. Then they’d only have to make it through an hour’s worth of pompous introductions and speeches before they could sneak off and get on with the tiny little task of getting in and out of a highly secured vault and back into the ballroom undetected. While magical wards and a whole castle full of guards were waiting to kill them. Ah well, piece of cake, right?

He sighed. Yeah. _Right_. Why couldn’t Varric be here with him? Not only did he know all about traps and stealing, he would have taken the whole “lying and making conversation” part off Anders’ hands as well. Instead of being completely useless, like a certain broody elf…

Although Fenris _had_ tried today. He’d even managed to be convincing a couple of times. Whatever had brought that on… Not to mention that Fenris had smuggled an obscene amount of Anders’ favourite treats in his pockets when they’d retired to a private nook for the second time. Sure, they’d been mostly reduced to smears and crumbles. Still, he’d thought of him. And when Anders, in return, dug Fenris’ favourite pastries out of his pockets, he’d _thanked_ him. And _smiled_.

If he didn’t know better, he’d think the elf was actually trying to be nice, albeit in between a few eye rolls and insults. Perhaps he hated this silent waiting for the day to be over just as much as Anders did? He had no idea how to talk to Fenris without provoking another fight but not talking…Maker, that was horrible. Not that he’d mind the elf being a little more on the meek side every now and again, yet there was just something…missing without the usual drop of sarcasm in his tea. Even if it was occasionally interlaced with bile. There was a funny guy lurking beneath those spikes…

If you weren’t a mage, of course. Mustn’t forget _that_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you were reminded of a certain scene/song from 'Galavant'…well, you wouldn’t be wrong.


	4. Operation “Crouching Mabari”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous. A sweet couple like you! It would be a shame not to dance.”

And with that, they were being shoved onto the dancefloor. So much for “sneaking off as soon as the dancing starts”.

Fenris didn’t have the slightest clue what to do. While he had been to events like this before, it had been in quite a different function. No one expected a slave to dance, at least not like this, arm in arm with a partner, an intimate entity gliding along in harmony with each other and the music. Like all those couples around them who made it look so effortless. Fenris could never hope to achieve such a feat. His choreography was one of solitude, his melody the clamour of battle, his partner a cold, lifeless blade. He watched his comrades’ steps, he reacted, he protected, yet their routines never mingled. It was one thing to briefly cross someone’s path, quite another to walk along it with them. And another still to match their rhythm.

Next to him, Anders looked every bit as uncertain as Fenris felt, but the mage put an arm around his waist regardless. He took his hand in his. “Just try not to step on my toes, alright?”

He didn’t get the chance to hiss that he _would of course not_ ; they were already moving. It turned out to have been for the better, for he would have broken that promise almost the moment he’d uttered it. Not only did he step on the mage’s toes, he also repeatedly stumbled, slipped on the polished floor, caused them to crash into other couples, fell against Anders’ chest, tripped over his own feet… In short, he was every bit the disaster he had feared he would be. Yet the mage did not scold him, merely tightened his grip with an encouraging smile. Of course. They had to put on a show for the other guests. Anders couldn’t mock him like he was surely itching to; he had to pretend he was enjoying this.

And he was doing a frighteningly good job at it. The way he held him, one hand warm and firm against his back, the other clasping his fingers, tightly, as though he never wanted to let him go. The confidence in his steps as he steered them safely across the dancefloor. The warmth in his eyes…Fenris felt like he was drowning in them, sinking deeper and deeper, and somehow, it made it easier to follow Anders’ steps, to just melt into his touch and the music and forget all the other, less beautiful eyes watching them.

If only Fenris didn’t have to crane his neck so much. Looking into his eyes wasn’t an easy feat when the top of your head barely came up to this absurdly tall feather-man’s chin. Why was he thinking about feathers now? Anders’ disguise didn’t have any. Too bad, really. Fenris had always thought they looked…fluffy.

 

He didn’t have a clue which steps were “correct”, what kind of choreography was required of them. There was no dancing in the Circles. Or on the run. In the Wardens. The sewers. But Fenris had frozen again, obviously even more petrified than he was. One of them had to take the lead and pull them through this. They were so close to getting away…. How hard could it be? He’d just use the steps he and Karl had made up, late at night in the empty library, ducking behind shelves every time they heard the clanking of armour in the hallway. They’d fantasized about being in a place like this, then, had painted it with soft words and kisses. Even if there was no chance for either of those here, at least one of them had managed to defy the Chantry’s _never_. A tiny part of Karl, an echo, was woven into every step. Anders liked to think he would have been proud.

Here he was, in the world they’d tried to deny them. Free, even if was on borrowed time. _Dancing_. With someone who hated him. Oh well, better to look at the bright side. Perhaps he could pretend, just for a little bit. After all, Fenris was making a valiant effort to hide his disdain. And a rather successful one, too, considering how the usually so prickly elf seemed to be almost melting into his embrace, peering up at him with…not a smile, exactly, his expression was too earnest for that, but it definitely wasn’t a sneer either. He’d even followed Anders’ lead without the slightest complaint, albeit with some trouble. At first. He was picking up the steps astonishingly quickly; it had been almost two minutes since Anders’ feet had last been assaulted.

They’d better leave soon. They had to get to the vault and back before the ball was over. Anders was all too aware of that, and yet, somehow, he liked the thought of staying for a second dance. Or would it be the third? The fourth? How long had they been here? It was too easy to get lost in those iridescent, emerald orbs – _Orbs_?! Alright, this was getting out of hand. When you started to talk like a character from Varric’s books, it was _definitely_ time to stop staring into eyes (regardless of how pretty they might be) and get out of here right this very moment. It was one thing to pretend for a bit, but this…Apparently, Karl’s memory had affected him more than he’d realized. He hadn’t even been thinking of him, and yet here he was, getting lost in Fenris’ gaze like a smitten apprentice… Which was the _last_ thing he needed right now.

The elf seemed to be of the same opinion, for he chose exactly this moment to let out a faint huff and a mumbled “You are too tall” and _put his head on Anders’ shoulder!_ Andraste’s heaving bosom, the elf was really getting the hang of this whole fake-lovers thing. And how did he get his hair to smell so lovely? Anders had been wondering about that all day. He would have expected wine and mould, but no, there was a light, fruity scent (fancy soap? On Fenris?!), and underneath that, a touch of lyrium and…well, Fenris. It was soft, it tickled a bit, and Anders really shouldn’t bury his nose in it, not again.

They had to leave.

Well…perhaps not right now….?

But soon.

 

It was easy to see why the Lord had finally chosen to come out of hiding. Who wouldn’t want to flaunt a lover like _this_? Someone to match his oddity as well as his beauty. Such a refreshing change from the dull masses around them. They moved amongst the other dancers as they had moved through the feast all day, to their own drum, in their own world, their rhythm that of an old couple that had weathered it all, that knew, and accepted. But at the same time, they’d somehow managed to hold on to the fire and fear of a love just beginning to bud. Lingering gazes, timid touches, scowls that longed to be kisses… Oh, but to be young again…

Ugh, these… _upstarts_ were at it again. Couldn’t even watch where there were going, too busy mooning over each other. So much for fortune and noble blood – sullied it with the first pretty elf that crossed his way. For a guy who’d spent the last two decades holed up in some little mansion in the woods, he sure liked making a spectacle of himself. Should have stayed there, and saved them all this vulgar display. At least they seemed to be done “dancing”. And of course they would leave the room right in the middle of the hostess’ welcome, rude and obnoxious as they were. _Good riddance_.

 

Anders was almost relieved when the music stopped for a brief announcement. Which, surprise, quickly turned out to be yet another full-blown speech. Well, with all eyes on the dais, at least no one was paying them any attention. No more excuses, no more delaying. They had a job to finish, and a routine of bickering and ignoring to get back to. Well, provided they survived this whole mess.

Leaving the noise and colour of the ball behind them, they quietly slipped out of the room, hurried through the deserted antechamber and down the stairs into a dimly-lit hallway. As soon as they had rounded the corner, Fenris stopped and took off his shoes.

“They are uncomfortable, and impossible to sneak in,” he grumbled at Anders’ questioning look.

Well, no surprise there, actually. He’d been complaining about them since the moment he put them on. Just what they needed, a trail of shoes to alert the guards to their presence.

“And what exactly are you planning to do with them, Ser Whiny-Feet? Because I fail to see how having your hands full of shoes is supposed to help with our task.”

Without a single word, Fenris dropped them into one of the large decorative vases that stood against the wall at regular intervals, then walked past him down the corridor.

 

 

He flexed his toes against the plush carpet. It felt good to have them freed from these stiff, smelly cages, to be able to move with precision. And if necessary, quietly. Not that it would make much of a difference walking next to someone who squeaked, rustled and swished with every single step. How could such a lean, scrawny body produce that much noise? Or be this uncoordinated…Especially considering that on the dancefloor, the mage had had perfect control over his long, elegant limbs. Perhaps they should simply dance all the way to the vault…

He quickly swallowed the smile that was about to take over his face and threw Anders a glance over his shoulder. “From what I recall, we should be more worried about your hands.”

“That was _one_ time.”

“Ah. Then I apologize. How could I forget an alarm needs to be triggered _twice_ to pose a problem?”

Anders caught up with him, flashing him a pointedly sweet smile. “Perhaps you were too busy being turned away at the front gate because you couldn’t come up with a convincing story?”

There was a brief silence.

“We should stop talking. There will be guards and servants around.”

“ _Right_.”

He countered the mage’s shameless grin with another eye roll. “Just focus on the map.”

 

The floorplan Hawke had provided them with proved accurate…for the most part. Navigating the intricate maze of hallways was, however, still a difficult task, and it wasn’t made any easier by constantly having to backtrack to avoid running into the castle’s personnel. Anders had to admit, talking would indeed not have been a good idea.

Their journey led them past the kitchen, several servants’ quarters, across a courtyard, through a (horribly scratchy) hedge, up a lattice onto a balcony, through a window and back down another one, and with each new acrobatic feat that left him dangling helplessly next to an annoyingly agile (and annoyingly smug) elf, Anders hated Hawke a little more.

_He’ll get what’s coming to him. Let’s see how much fun he has on his next visit to the Bone Pit when I swap out his healing potions for laxatives._

At last, they found themselves in the right part of the estate, and the closer they got to the heart of the fortress, the less they had to worry about evading people. These hallways seemed to be off limits to servants as well as guests, meaning they only had the guards to worry about.

Although they hadn’t seen any of those for quite a while either. Perhaps the owner of the place thought his wards and locks were protection enough and didn’t want anyone – including his own staff – to know the location of his hidden treasures? Well, that would make their job a whole lot easier; all this sneaking around was beginning to grate on Anders’ nerves. He certainly wouldn’t mind not constantly having to worry about what might be lurking behind the next corner. Like the one Fenris was about to round–

_Clank._

He’d escaped the Circle enough times to know what that sound meant, although he didn’t consciously process it, not with only having a fraction of a second to react. A fraction he made full – and dare he say heroic – use of, grabbing Fenris by the collar, pulling him back down the hall and into the shadows behind a large column. Just in time before several guards appeared behind the corner… The corner that would have been their downfall.

He pressed himself against Fenris, trying to make their bodies as flat as possible against the pillar. Neither of them dared to breathe as heavy boots walked past them, but he could feel Fenris’ heart thudding in his chest, the heat of his body through all their layers of ridiculous clothing. The elf was staring at him, lips slightly parted, pupils blown wide. That soft fringe of hair obscuring half of his face, the fluttering lashes, his expression, somewhere between frightened and perplexed – he looked adorable like this and also…well, there was no denying it, hot like Andraste’s pyre. Anders definitely wouldn’t getting acquainted with his…stake… Right about now.

And right about now was also _the worst possible time_ to be thinking about that. Wrong time, wrong place, wrong _person_. Maker’s unmentionables, if Fenris could hear his thoughts…

Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice pointed out that this was hardly the first time he’d had thoughts of this nature about the dissonant elf. It backed up its point with images of Fenris bending over to pick up his sword, Fenris chuckling during Wicked Grace, Fenris’ eyes meeting his across the table, and the more recent additions of a certain dark tunnel and his few lucid memories of the prior night. Because it was an _unhelpful voice_ that was also _completely wrong_ about everything.

By now, the guards were well out of earshot, but Fenris hadn’t moved; he was still staring at him with that intense, shiver-inducing look.

Anyone who claimed mages were weak had no idea of the amount of willpower it took to push himself off the pillar and take a step back.

A prolonged blink and a frown later, Fenris shook his head.

Anders threw him a grin, adding an extra bit of smug to cover up the shakiness. “Saved by a mage.”

The elf’s lips twitched just the tiniest fraction. “I am aware that you have your uses.”

“ _Uses_?!”

Well, there was the cold shower he needed. He had quite a lot more to say on that particular matter, but was effectively shut up by a finger being pressed against his lips. Fenris’ soft smile was in strange contrast to the abrupt, almost rough gesture. His whole face seemed to take part in it, even his eyes, crinkling, full of mirth and something that could have been mistaken for...affection.

“It was a compliment. Take it.”

Anders was too stupefied to do anything but nod.

 

They waited several minutes before they dared to leave their hiding spot. Walking next to Anders – _carefully_ , this time - Fenris internally scolded himself. _Distracted._ That shouldn’t have happened, not to him. He had been trained to always be on alert, had seen, on more than one occasion, what happened when he _wasn’t_. And yet he had been about to bump into their enemies face first. If the mage hadn’t intervened…

He heaved a quiet sigh.

The walking noise disturbance with no sense for vigilance (and without the benefit of elven hearing) had noticed the approaching guards first.

He was never going to live this down.

 

Of course, technically, Anders saving them only made them even, considering how the mage had completely frozen back in the tunnels – not to mention that he had been the one alerting the guards to their presence in the first place – but that would not stop him from gloating and teasing.

He _had_ been quick to react, Fenris had to give him that. And surprisingly…strong. The way he’d grabbed him, dragged him to safety and then kept him in place, pressing into him with unyielding determination…Why had it made him feel safe when he should have felt trapped?

Well, safe and… other things. Things he shouldn’t be thinking about. Sharp angles and soft flesh, the caress of an unsteady breath, a curve of lips like a question, an answer, an invitation…Venhedis. _Again_. Guards, traps, dogs, glyphs, there could be all kinds of threats hidden in these halls, especially this close to the vault, and here he was pondering absurd combinations of words, like “kissable nose”, “sun-spun hair”, or “luscious buttocks”.

If he continued to allow himself such distractions, it would only be a matter of minutes until the mage had to come to his aid again.

_Would that really be so bad?_

With a firm shake of his head, he forced his attention back to the corridor in front of them.

 

They reached the vault less than ten minutes later, having encountered no more guards and only two, easily evadable, traps along the way. The mage’s minor outburst - “There are no wards??? No magic??? Just some lame _puzzles_???? Andraste’s Knickerweasels, why am I even here?!” – aside, unlocking the doors proved relatively straightforward. Although it probably would have taken Isabela and Varric less time (and possibly, less bickering) to determine the order in which the tasteful nudes had to be arranged, the timing for pulling each…lever, and the song that needed to be intoned during the process.

Thirteen attempts, one of which successful, later, they found themselves inside a large chamber. Two walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves stuffed with small chests, ancient scrolls and jewellery boxes; the others were taken up by haphazard piles of sculptures, paintings, furs in colours Fenris had never seen before and strange, ancient-looking weapons. Beneath a large (and by some nonsensical but undeniably practical coincidence, lit) chandelier in the centre of a room stood a gigantic desk overflowing with papers.

With any luck, they wouldn’t have to search the whole room for the documents Aveline needed.

As Fenris began to open drawers and take out stack after stack of documents, Anders gestured at various items in the room.

“Who does their paperwork in a _vault_? They have a whole fortress, with at least a hundred lovely, sunny rooms, and their own private little army to guard them. What’s wrong with these people? And why in the Maker’s name would you put _those_ next to your most valuable possessions? Imagine having to look at this hideousness while you’re fiddling with your finances, or writing thank you letters. No wonder he comes up with evil schemes!”

“I am sure the statues are devastated to hear they are not to your taste. Now let us find what we came for, and be on our way.”

They had a job to do, and here Anders was complaining about interior design. The man was ridiculous. Though not nearly as ridiculous as Fenris himself, staring at the mage’s animatedly moving hands and wondering if _he_ might be to his taste. Foolish, very, very foolish, and not only because he was all too aware that the answer was no. Knowing the mage, most likely a snorted, disdainful “No”.

His dramatic sigh and pout notwithstanding, Anders joined him at the desk and started flicking through papers with surprising efficiency. It would seem that having more than a year of reading experience helped with the task.

Several mumbled condemnations of squandering and vanity later, a triumphant “Hah!” startled Fenris out of his battle with the tiniest handwriting he had ever seen.

“See, there it is,” the mage exclaimed, thrusting a piece of paper into his face. “I say we take the whole stack. I’m sure Aveline wants every single soul-crushingly boring number.”

With a huff, Fenris snatched the document out of his grasp and brought enough distance between it and his eyes so that he could make out the writing. On this particular topic, it was certainly wiser to defer to Anders’ judgement, yet he made a point of at least pretending to read through the whole thing himself.

When he had skimmed the opening paragraphs, he handed it back to the mage with a nod.

“We have what we need. Let us move on. I do not wish to linger here.”

With a shuddering look at the statues, Anders said, “I couldn’t agree more.”

 

They grabbed a handful of shiny things for Hawke on their way out - only as many as they could fit into their pockets, since they could hardly return to the ballroom with their arms full of trinkets - and returned to the hallway, making sure to close the door behind them and put the complicated locking mechanisms back in place. With luck, no one would even know they’d been here.

Well, at least until they noticed the missing documents.

The hallways were even more deserted than they’d been on the way there. Not a single guard crossed their way. All things considered, the mission hadn’t been nearly as impossible as Fenris had feared. They still had to make it through the whole ordeal of getting back to the ball, of course, but the hardest part was behind them. Already, they were back at the room that led to the courtyard. Peeking around the corner, Fenris found it empty. He stepped inside, the mage right behind him. As he headed for the balcony door, he could have sworn he’d heard a slight rustling in the corner. He turned around to check if Anders had noticed it too – and realized the question had been rendered moot.

They were surrounded by guards.

 


	5. Operation “Hidden Dragon”

“You know, I have always considered the best alarms to be… _silent_ ones. Keeps the vermin feeling secure while you snap the trap shut and crush it.”

The man’s moustache seemed to have a life of its own. Underlining each word with an absurd, hypnotizing little bob, it stretched along with his sneer into a reddish-brown, oily caterpillar. So groomed, vain and obscene it belonged in a magister’s face. The sight was almost as terrifying as the situation they found themselves in – rounded up, manhandled, thrown into a dark, cold cell that reeked of urine and terror. So much like… _no_. This _wasn't_ … And _he_ wasn’t here.

They had, of course, also been stripped off their stolen goods. Most of them, at least. While the guards had closed in around them, the mage had pressed his back against Fenris’ and, shielded from view, hidden the documents in his pants, right between…actually, Fenris didn’t want to think too hard about the details.

The fuzzy abomination was bouncing again, quivering with the guard’s chuckle. “I had been wondering about you two…but I dismissed you as ‘too obvious and unskilled’. Well, that’ll teach me. No such thing as ‘too obvious’ when it comes to lowlifes. But given that you ended up here…” He gestured at the cell. “I guess it’s safe to say I was right about that second part.”

Next to him, Anders bristled yet, miraculously, remained silent. Fenris could only hope it would stay that way. There was nothing to gain by blurting out information to their captors, not until they could be sure how much they already knew. A detail that probably should have been discussed _before_ , given the mage’s chatty and obstinate nature. Which he seemed to have temporarily misplaced. Either that or he understood the importance of keeping their cards concealed… What _cards_? As if they had even a single one left. He tried to swallow the bitterness welling up at the thought, but the taste remained, filling every part of mouth, his throat and insides with bile. And fear.

Did Anders realize how powerless they were? The occasional glower aside, he had followed along meekly, and he hadn’t uttered a single word. Neither had Fenris. It didn’t seem to deter their captor in the slightest.

And unfortunately, it also didn’t shut him up.

“Apparently, I should also add ‘ignorant’ to the list.” He frowned at the meagre booty his subordinates carried. “This seems hardly worth the effort. You’ve left the most valuable pieces behind. And then there’s the question of how you got that floorplan…” Eyes narrowing, he seemed to ponder for a moment. At last, he shrugged and continued, in a tone of bone-chilling cheerfulness. “Well, no need to disrupt the festivities and bother the Duke with this now. But he will certainly want to have words with you in the morning, find out who put you up to this, and decide what to do with you. Personally, I’d just gut you and throw you to the dogs but alas, it’s not up to me. I wouldn’t get my hopes up, though. The Duke has no fondness for thieves.” He picked up the amulet they’d chosen for Isabela, letting it dangle on its chain as he flashed them a grin that left no room for doubt or mercy. “If I were you, I’d be prepared to wear a different sort of necklace, soon. Less shiny, I’m afraid, and not quite so filigree. But don’t worry, you won’t be wearing it long.” Turning to his men, he added, “Bring them some water in the morning, but don’t bother feeding them. It’d be at waste of resources.”

With a final grin and a mock salute, he let the door fall shut behind him.

“What a charming fellow,” Anders murmured when the sound of their footsteps had faded. “Certainly helps you understand why some people prefer solitude…At least their search wasn’t _that_ thorough. If he’d found the documents, the Duke would already be on his way to interrogate us.”

The sound of the door slamming shut still echoed in his ears. “Are they… safe in their current…location?” Swirls of black were clouding the edges of his vision, making it hard to focus.

“Oh yes, no need to worry. Believe me, it’s not the first time I’ve smuggled something in there. And boy, am I going to enjoy handing them to Hawke. Well, if we survive this of course. Which reminds me…we need to come up with a believable reason why Hawke sent us here. He’ll probably figure out it’s about Kirkwall anyway, but if there’s any chance we can keep the documents hidden…”

His stomach was trapped between millstones of dread and nausea.

“You…intend to tell him Hawke sent us?”

“Well, yes, what else should we tell him? ‘We are but humble tourists who love breaking into top secret vaults guarded by men armed to their teeth and ready to kill. And we especially love going through all that trouble and then not actually _stealing_ anything except a few trinkets’? Hawke is the only bargaining chip we have. If we play it right and make the Duke understand that Hawke will owe him a – no, make that several – huge favours if we are safely returned to Kirkwall, we can…”

“You would have him _indebted_ to these people? Endanger him, get him involved in their schemes, possibly have him branded a traitor? Of course. Why am I not surprised? Your first thought is to betray him. That is all your kind does. Deceive and betray.” He raised his voice, trying to hear himself through the wads of wool in his ears. “We would not be in this mess if it weren’t for _you._ If Hawke hadn’t suspected _magic_. Isabela would have noticed this ‘silent alarm’. She wouldn’t have let us get caught like rats.” The black swirls expanded, joined by pinpricks of flashing white. He struggled to stay on his feet.

He had to stop, to catch his breath… Breath…breathing… Breathing was good…Not so fast, though. Steady. Slow. Slow cleared the fog, brought things back into focus…

Things like the mage, staring at him, face red and mouth open, brows pressed so far down onto his eyes that he looked like a mole.

A mole whose yelling could have drowned out a dragon’s roar.

“You can’t be serious! _I_ was the one who saved your ungrateful arse back there! But of course, you’re quick to forget that, you bloody hypocrite. Or the fact that _THERE WAS NO MAGIC INVOLVED_! You hateful, ogre-brained prick, _YOU_ ….To think I actually considered…” He swallowed, breathing heavily for a moment, then continued, in an eerily quiet voice, hurling each syllable into Fenris’ face like a fist made of spit and spite. “Do you think I wanted to come here any more than you did? Hawke got us into this mess, and it has nothing to do with magic. You want to blame someone, blame him. Or better yet, blame yourself, Serrah Sneak-fail-knows-it-all.” Beneath the cover of fire and fury, the mage’s face was crumpling, falling apart right in front of him.

_Betrayal_.

Anders wasn’t the one who’d committed it.

“You are right.”

“That you actually have the _gall_ to… – I am _what_?!”

“You are right. This is not your fault. I…” He took another deep breath and forced himself to meet the mage’s eyes. “I apologise. I lashed out. I was...afraid. You did not deserve that.”

The silence between them stretched. Anders’ face went through several stages of contortion and de-reddening, hands twitching at his side as if he was as unsure what to do with them as with his expression. At last, he settled on raising his eyebrows.

“ _You_ were afraid.”

“I do have feelings, mage. Is that really such a surprise?”

“Well…yes. No. I mean…you just…tend not to show them.”

“No. What good would that do?”

“Well, for starters, if you let people know you were scared, they’d try to help you. They might even hug you.”

“And that would help… _how_?”

“Because it would be _comforting_? Maker’s last shred of patience, it’s like talking to a rock with you. Being held can make things better. It calms your nerves, soothes away the panic. Which you would know if you ever actually let anyone close.”

“You mean like _you_ do?” Time to show him he wasn’t the only one who could raise his eyebrows.

“Yes, yes, make it about me.” The mage threw up his hands. “You’re good at that, aren’t you? Deflecting, hiding, yelling at innocent people…”

“I learned from the best. I had ample time to watch you.” While the mage was busy spluttering, he added, “So, am I understanding your verbose explanation correctly – you are going to hug me now?”

Anders’ head snapped towards him. “Wh…what?”

“I did tell you how I felt,” he clarified, adding a smirk for good measure.

 

It had been a taunt, an empty challenge. A way to defuse the tension. Fenris didn’t really think the mage would…And as expected, Anders fell silent. But then, quite unexpectedly, he nodded.

“Alright, you know what? Yes.”

It took the mage only two strides of his endless legs to cross over to him. With an expression that could have been either a grin or an indication of severe abdominal discomfort, he wrapped his arms around Fenris’ waist and pulled him flush against his body, face to chest. Fenris was too stunned to react. Arms dangling at his sides, he hung limply in Anders’ embrace like the catch of the day.

“I know ‘manners’ are not your thing, but you could at least hug me back.”

The mage sounded entirely too facetious for someone whose posture was so ridiculously stiff Fenris might as well have been hugging one of the hideous statues. Which would also have explained the vice-like grip. If Fenris had wanted someone to squeeze him to death, he would have approached the Arishok. But if the man insisted on ‘manners’…

He put his hands on Anders’ back. It didn’t make the whole thing any less wooden, but at least he didn’t feel quite so slumped anymore. And as clumsy and awkward as Fenris’ attempt at hugging was, it took only a few seconds for the mage’s body to…soften. His head came to rest atop Fenris; his arms turned from a vice into a comfortable cradle, still enveloping him, holding him close in a way that no longer reeked of irony. It reminded Fenris of their time on the dancefloor, of their bodies pressing against each other in dark tunnels and hallways - and was at once completely different. No barbs to hide behind, no breaths catching for fear of detection, it felt…solid. Real. And beneath all that, there it was again....feeling safe where he shouldn't. Anders was warm. Of a gentle, considerate strength. And Fenris was tired, so very tired. And he didn't want to let go.

 

Maker, what had he been thinking? This could no longer pass for a joke, not by any stretch of the word. Fenris had sunk to his knees, lain down on the ground, pulling him along and crawling into his arms. Well, not that holding Fenris didn’t feel nice… and the floor was both damp and could….They should probably make use of every source of warmth they could get. He’d simply have to keep his hips angled _just so_ … Maker, not again. He’d been wrong before, _this_ was the worst possible time. Fenris was actually trusting him enough to let his guard down and here Anders was, imagining what he’d look like sans clothing. How could he be thinking about _that_? In a few hours, they’d most likely be dead. They’d be hanged, or have their heads chopped off…Fenris’ beautiful head, his lovely smile…His stomach clenched with a force that hit him by surprise. For a moment, he struggled to breathe.

No, they wouldn't hurt him. He wouldn't _let_ them. In the end, they still had one advantage – their captors didn't know he was a mage, let alone anything about Fenris’ fisting abilities ( _wrong choice of word. Abort! Abort!_ ). If they so much as dared to lay a finger on the elf, he would set them on fire, every single one of them.

Next to him, Fenris was shifting, coiling himself as tightly around his body as he could manage. He seemed less agitated now, but his breath was still unsteady against Anders’ neck.

Slowly, Anders began to stroke his hands across his back, whispering into his ear that everything was going to be alright. It didn’t do much to convince himself, yet it seemed to calm Fenris. And somehow, that made him feel better as well. At least a little.

It wasn’t as bad as it could have been. They hadn’t been separated. There was another heartbeat next to his, and Fenris, soft (not a word he’d normally have associated with the elf, but there it was) and warm in his arms.

 

Fenris could now confirm that being held did indeed feel comforting. Or at least that being held by Anders did. Comforting and…those other things he still shouldn’t be thinking about. Now even less than before, not when the mage was actually showing him _kindness_ , was keeping him safe, caressing him, _soothing_ him – all without the slightest hint of mockery.

He tried to concentrate on Anders’ words instead. Empty reassurances, but laced with so much care it gave them meaning. The mage synchronized them with his touches, those repeating, gentle patterns he rubbed into his back, and slowly, Fenris felt himself sink into them, inappropriate thoughts eclipsed by exhaustion.

He’d thought Anders had fallen asleep when the words stopped, but after a few minutes of silence, he suddenly spoke again, in a soft murmur, mouth close to Fenris ear.

“Fenris…I’d never turn on Hawke. This isn’t betrayal. He’s safe in Kirkwall, mentioning him won’t hurt him. But it might help us. He sent us into this mess. Is it really too much to ask that he get us out of it as well?”

“I know, mage.” His face was still pressed into Anders’ chest. “But I fear it will not work. What better way to hide their schemes than to have us disappear?”

The mage gave him a little squeeze. “Using us as leverage might also make it easier for them to achieve their goals.”

“You think Aveline would compromise the city’s safety to get us back?” He tried not to huff, but it was impossible.

“Us? No. You? Certainly. She’d never let anything happen to you. You’re her friend. And,” he added, so quietly Fenris’ ears just barely picked it up, “I won’t let them hurt you either.”

Those were good words to fall asleep to. As his lids grew heavy, they wrapped themselves around him like a blanket.

 

Fenris’ breath had evened out hours ago, yet sleep refused to come to Anders. He kept reminding himself that he wasn’t alone. Locked up, in a tiny cell, in the dark, _again_ , yes. But not alone. He had to hold on to that. It wasn’t the same. He hadn’t been forgotten. Fenris was at his side. And he’d kept Anders from freaking out, had made him angry enough to ignore his own fear. Even if it hadn’t been his intention. Just as it hadn’t been his intention to hurt him. The elf had merely been afraid.

Afraid. The proud, immovable Fenris – afraid. It made no sense. Well, alright, actually, it made perfect sense. To be trapped, caged…it had to terrify him at least as much as it terrified Anders. It was just…difficult to reconcile. Was he…always scared when he got like this? Was that _why_ he got like this? As in, the only reason? Or were most of the times just him being, well, an arse? And if so, what was the “arse/afraid” ratio?

_You often say things that do not match your thoughts when you are afraid. Or hurt. Or insecure. Sometimes, when you’re hungry._

“Shut up.” There was no need to verbalise the sentiment, but merely thinking it just didn’t feel as gratifying. Since he didn’t want to wake Fenris, he settled for a murmur. Better than nothing.

He looked down at the elf huddled up against him, snuggled into his arms like he belonged just there. Like he trusted him. _This_ wasn’t exactly easy to reconcile either. His face open, all defiance eased from his features, he looked shockingly young. And shockingly small. Not like an arse at all.

Justice might have had a point there.

With a sigh, he buried his head in Fenris’ hair, determined to get some sleep, to chase away these thoughts before they had a chance to take root. They were even more confusing than the beckoning pressure of the elf’s body against his. And infinitely more dangerous.

Sleep wasn’t easily convinced, but at last, it took mercy on him, carrying him over to the flickering slopes of the fade.

When he awoke, it was early morning.

And the door was open.


	6. Emergency Operation: Raging Bronto

“It’s a trap.”

“To what end? To find out if prisoners will try to escape? The answer will shock you!”

“Hmpf.”

“Hmpf? I see, we're back to grunting.” The thought of chopping off his head no longer seemed all that unappealing. “What’s _your_ genius plan, then? Should we just keep sitting here like meek little mice until they decide to kill us? Perhaps you…” _do have the temperament of a slave after all._

He swallowed the words just in time.

_Maker_ …Alright, Justice _definitely_ had a point.

But in his defence, the elf’s behaviour was exhausting. Infuriating, to be precise. Ever since Anders had shaken him awake, pointing at the open door with what had undoubtedly been a very attractive look of utter, fish-faced confusion, Fenris had been nothing but suspicious. Which had only served to amplify Anders’ own suspicions, that niggling worry that there _had_ to be a catch. Fenris wasn’t exactly wrong – locked doors didn’t just open themselves. And no one in this place had anything to gain by letting them out. It was very much possible that this was, indeed, a trap, and that they would run straight into it.

No. They wouldn’t. They _couldn’t_. He’d promised he wouldn’t let them hurt him, and he couldn’t keep that promise if he didn’t get him out of this blighted place. There’d be time to call him a stubborn fool later (well…hopefully), for now, he had to make said stubborn fool see sense.

Sighing heavily, he let his arms drop to his sides. “Look, if we don’t act now, there will be no more reason to discuss _anything_. The sun is already rising. Someone will come check on us soon.”

At first he thought Fenris was preparing to argue again, but then the elf settled for a curt nod. “Fine.” Anders hadn’t been prepared for acquiescence, and he was even less prepared for the sudden quirk of Fenris’ lips. “If we end up walking into a trap, I will blame it on you.”

“Well,” he shrugged once he had gotten over the shock, “that’s what I’m here for.”

The quirk was more pronounced this time. “For once, we agree on something.”

 

After a peek into the dungeon had confirmed that there were no guards in sight, they stepped out of their cell and crept towards the exit. When they’d been brought here the night before, Anders had been too preoccupied with thoughts of doom and lonely darkness to pay much attention to their surroundings, but now that he was in more of a state to look around, he noticed that the other cells were empty. All of them. Given the guard’s gleeful assertions that the Duke had no mercy for thieves, Anders wasn’t sure whether that was a good or a bad sign. And he really didn’t want to stay long enough to find out.

When they reached the door, Fenris - apparently convinced Anders was too much of an idiot to realize they had to be quiet - pressed a finger against his lips and signalled for him to wait. Since talking would only have proven him right (and put them at risk of, well, getting caught…) Anders swallowed both retort and indignation, settling for a nod. If the elf wanted to play hero, fine by him, so long as it got them out and Anders could drag his condescending arse to safety. He even waited until Fenris had his back to him before he rolled his eyes.

The elf was out the door in a flash, and took care of the two guards posted next to it before they even had time to shout for help. Well, he was efficient, Anders had to give him that. Not that he couldn’t have done the same; he would have frozen these murderous bastards right on the spot! It might have gone a little less…quietly, though. Perhaps telling him to stay behind hadn’t been pointless arrogance after all.

Since an unguarded door was at least marginally less suspicious than one framed by bodies, they dragged the guards inside and hid them in the nearest cell. Hopefully, their absence wouldn’t be noticed too soon.

They left the dungeons, retracing the route their captors had taken the night before as far as they could remember. Which wasn’t nearly far enough. They were in an entirely unfamiliar part of the castle and about three corners in, all hallways started to look the same. With their map taken away, they could only guess which direction to turn, and constantly having to rush towards the nearest hiding place to avoid running into servants made it even harder to keep track of their whereabouts.

Their dashing escape reduced to a cabaret of trial and error, they stumbled through seemingly endless corridors, ending up exactly where they had started on more occasions than any kind of torture would ever get them to admit. At least an hour and several animated yet soundless debates on whether to turn left or right later, they finally found themselves in the main building. There were noticeably more servants around, which meant they had to be extra careful, as but at least they had a vague idea of where there were going.

When they reached the gardens (by slipping through one of the large windows in the library), and crouched down behind one of the countless hedges, Fenris let out a breath he was painfully aware he’d been holding. The entire time. So much could have gone wrong. _Should_ have gone wrong, in fact. Lost in unfamiliar territory, enemies behind almost every corner, and on top of that, Anders’ complete inability to be quiet. Not that he hadn’t _tried_ , this time, but even with his mouth kept shut, his body still produced enough noise to be heard all the way back in Kirkwall. It was a small miracle they’d made it this far. And now it looked as though “this far” was the end of the line.

Most of the guests were still in their chambers. Only a few early birds meandered across the lawns, yet there were several groups of guards patrolling the ground, and overworked servants setting up tables for the later festivities. Not nearly as many people as they’d had to deal with the days before, but still too many to slip out unseen. Or to even just make it to the gate (and its additional guards) unseen.

“Well, shit,” Anders mumbled next to him. “There goes our nice little stroll through the gardens.” Their night in the dungeons hadn’t been kind to him. Clothes rumpled, hair unkempt and sticking out in all directions, complexion ashen, he looked tired, like he had barely slept at all. Yet despite his obvious exhaustion, he still found the strength to turn his head and give Fenris a lopsided smile. “It’s as if we’re in one of Varric’s crazy stories, complete with insurmountable obstacles and hordes of faceless enemies. You don’t by any chance happen to remember how his heroes manage to get out of their predicaments?”

Fenris reached up and stroked a particularly stubborn strand of hair out of Anders’ eyes. His hand still mid-air, he blinked. He hadn’t meant to do that. His limbs seemed to have severed themselves from conscious thought. Next to him, Anders blinked as well. Before the sudden silence between them could stretch any further, Fenris cleared his throat.

“I…ahem…am afraid I usually stop listening long before he reaches that part.”

“Well, that makes two of us. Too bad.” The mage was smiling again, but there was a hint of uncertainty around the edges, and something in his eyes Fenris couldn’t quite place. “Any ideas?”

“No. There are too many people. All possible routes are blocked. We cannot reach the gate without being noticed, and we cannot fight them all at once.”

The mage nodded solemnly. “Much as I hate to admit it, you’re right.”

“I am surprised you did not choke on those words.”

“The day’s still young,” Anders said, answering his grin with a shrug. “And it seems if we’re to stand a chance at getting out of here, we’ll need a distraction.”

“And how do you propose to provide this _distraction_?”

“ _Mage_ , remember? Be glad you have one, it’s our best shot. Well, unless you happen to carry an Ogre in your pocket. Setting things on fire usually tends to work quite well.”

“You cannot throw that many fireballs. They will see you.”

“Eventually, yes. But I can cover most of the ground without having to come out of hiding. If I stick to small flames, it should take a while before they notice what’s going on. And by then, half their dresses will already be on fire. I just need to find a good spot. ” He risked another peek over the hedge. “Alright, I’ll sneak past that fountain and hide on the other side of the stalls. You stay here, and as soon as they start rushing towards the fires, you run. It’ll give you a head start.”

“It will also put _you_ at a higher risk. I refuse to go along with this.”

“Which should in turn help keep their attention off you, so what are you complaining about?” Anders stopped Fenris’ wide-eyed protests with an impatient wave. “It’s our only option, and you know it. This way, perhaps at least one of us will make it. With dumb luck, maybe even both of us.”

Fenris was nowhere near finished protesting, but Anders didn’t seem to be listening. He was too busy rummaging around in his…pants? Fenris was about to demand an explanation when a pile of documents was stuffed into his pockets.

“Mage! What are you doing?”

“Just…use your gauntlets to touch them,” Anders said lightly. He even had the audacity to wink. Did he think this was a _joke_?

“Why are you giving them to me? I thought they were safe in…there.”

“Well, they won’t be if I don’t make it. Let’s face it, you’re faster. If only one of us gets away, it’ll most likely be you.”

“And if it _isn’t_ me?”

Another wink, as if he hadn’t just agreed to basically sacrifice himself. “Then we really have _exceptionally_ bad luck, instead of just the regular kind. Take them. If they catch me, perhaps Hawke can use them to bargain for my release. Well, at least if they don’t kill me on the spot.”

Still ignoring his vehement objections, Anders skulked off towards his chosen location. He had almost reached the end of the hedge when he hesitated and turned around. The amount of relief flooding Fenris at the sight was ridiculous, but he didn’t care, so long as Anders abandoned this desperate plan and stayed at his side. They’d come up with something else. Perhaps they could simply hide somewhere until nightfall, use the darkness to their advantage. And yes, sooner or later the guards would discover their empty cell and start sweeping the grounds but with a bit of luck, they might be able to evade them and escape. Together.

Anders crawled right up to his side, looking straight at him. “In case one of us doesn’t make it…If this is our last moment together…I don’t want it to be without doing this.”

Fenris wasn’t given the opportunity to explain his new plan. The mage leaned in, grabbed his neck and – kissed him, in a rush of hunger and passion. There was no restraint, only the sound of muffled moans as his lips moved with greedy determination, his tongue courting Fenris’, his arms wrapping around him, pulling him close, ever closer into him, drowning him in his taste and scent and warmth until there seemed to be no distance left between them.

A pleasant fog in his mind and a thunderstorm in his groin, there was little room for coherent thought. One, however, did make it through: once again, he found himself agreeing with Anders. He wouldn’t have wanted to die without doing this.

And neither did he want to live without it.


	7. Assignment unclear, kissed the elf

Fenris’ feet flew over the ground, barely touching it as he pushed on frantically, relentlessly. He ignored the burning sensation in his lungs, the agony in his legs. The pain didn’t matter; nothing mattered but this: they were alive. Both of them. Banged up and bruised, but alive. He looked at the mage running at his side with equal parts exhilaration and disbelief. It was unlikely Anders even noticed his staring; he was almost keeling over with exhaustion, covered in soot and blood, fiery, beautiful, and _alive_. Their last moment together hadn’t been the last after all. Although as far as last memories were concerned, theirs would have been a perfect one…

How long had they been running? An hour, at least, probably more. Long and far enough to slow down a bit, but all logic notwithstanding, Fenris didn’t dare stop. He kept pressing them on, further and further into the woods at a merciless pace, determined to shake off any pursuers that might still be on their heels. If there had even been any to begin with after the havoc they’d wreaked.

 

There’d been no chance to stop Anders. As soon as their lips had parted the mage had run off, with nothing but a whispered “Good luck”. Fenris had been completely powerless, crouching behind the hedge with burning eyes and a frozen gut as he watched Anders create the promised distraction. Needless to say, he couldn’t really _watch_ him; the mage had chosen his hiding place well. But even if Fenris couldn’t see him, he did see the fires. Tiny flames, licking at hems and tables, dancing across tarpaulins, turning hedges into torches and ornaments into offerings, fragments of charcoaled petals dripping from trellises. And then, when the mage had been discovered, huge ones. A firestorm raining from the sky, scorching the lawn as well as the guards that tried to cross it. And then snow and hail, obscuring the view, an icicle piercing a guard right before his sword could pierce Fenris and, rising above the chaos, Anders’ voice.

“ _RUN, you idiot_!”

Fenris didn’t. Or rather, he ran in the wrong direction. Had he not, he wouldn’t have been able to…

He shivered, his eyes once again drawn to the blood on Anders’ clothes. He’d been surrounded. They’d almost…if Fenris hadn’t been fast enough…

_NO_. It didn’t matter anymore. Anders was alive. The dagger hadn’t sunk deep enough. And the man who’d held it would never harm him again. Fenris had made sure of that.

The mage hadn’t been wrong, though. Running back had almost resulted in both of them being captured. With only one target to pursue, the guards closed in on them from all sides. Too many to fight at once, they blocked the path to the gate. It had, for all intends and purposes, looked to be the end.

But then somehow, for some reason, the Maker’s poor sense of humour smiled upon them.

One of the mage’s spells must have set some poisonous material on fire, resulting in a greenish mist that had a whole group of guards drop unconscious within seconds of stepping into it. Not far from them, a second squad ended up enveloped in the thick smoke of another fire. Apparently, it obscured their vision enough to make them start fighting among themselves.

It created an opening. A small one, but it was enough.

They made it to the gate, scaled the wall, landed on the other side with a shiny new set of cuts and bruises, and started running for their lives.

They had been really, really, miraculously lucky.

And they hadn’t stopped running since.

 

The forest began to thin out around them, eventually spewing them out onto a small clearing. Sweaty, panting and in obvious need of a break, Anders tripped over a root. Or a stone, or perhaps his own feet, clumsy, lovely mage that he was. Fenris caught him just in time, steadied him, pulled him back to his feet. Their faces only an inch apart, they stared at each other in silence for one endless, loaded moment. Then Anders lowered his gaze, disentangled himself from his grasp with a mumbled “Thank you” and made to walk on. Once again abandoning conscious thought, Fenris reached out, gabbed his arm and turned him back around. He was certain that by now, whoever might be hunting them would no longer be able to pick up their trail. They could take a moment, and he really needed one. He had to ask.

And he had to ask _now_ , while he still had the nerve.

The mage was staring straight ahead, exhaustion on his face. Exhaustion, and something else. Fear? Wariness, perhaps. He didn’t speak, just stood there, unmoving, with his eyes locked onto Fenris’ forehead.

Fenris took a deep breath. “Why did you kiss me?”

It didn’t sound nearly as confident as it had sounded in his head. His treacherous voice betrayed his uncertainty. And his…hope.

Foolish, still so foolish.

It was impossible to be sure but beneath the blush of exertion, Anders seemed to pale. He had to have expected the question, but he was stammering anyway. “I…well…Maker, can we just forget about that? I thought we were about to die…People do stupid things when they think their time is up.” Swallowing visibly, he hesitated. “Listen…I know I shouldn’t have…forced that on you. And I _am_ sorry. But I can’t undo it, so…”

“Was it that bad?” This time, his voice was slightly less treacherous.

Anders’ brow furrowed. “What? No. It wasn’t 'bad' at all. Quite the opposite.”

“Then why would you wish to undo it?”

“Well, there is this ‘force’ part. That’s not usually my style.” His gaze dropped to Fenris’ feet. “I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable. I really am sorry.”

It was Fenris’ turn to stammer. “You…you thought I was uncomfortable? Was I…doing it wrong? Did I appear unwilling?”

A soft smile crept onto Anders’ face. Soft…and sad. “No, you seemed rather enthusiastic, actually. At least…during. That tongue of yours….those delicious little moans…” He shook his head with more force than seemed necessary. “But…you thought you were about to die, too. And I just…grabbed you. That you reciprocated in, well, the heat of the moment doesn’t mean you didn’t regret it afterwards. I mean…you…I…we’ve never…we’re not…I’m not the person you’d…”

“Neither am I, to you.”

“Well,” the mage said with an unconvincing grin,” like I said, impending doom and all…” He shrugged.

Fenris didn’t know what to say, or if he should even say anything at all, given that the mage seemed to be determined to “forget” about it. Perhaps it was for the best. For all his foolish hope…What good could come of it?

“We should probably move on…get back to our clothes…and hope the rest of our coin is still there….I could use a decent meal and a bed tonight…not to mention a _bath_ …Alright, tomorrow night…looks like it’ll be the woods for now…Just what we need, right…well, at least it’s better than a cell…I’ll take soil over stone any time…” Anders kept rambling on cheerfully. Too cheerfully. Fenris had heard that tone before. Every time someone mentioned the Templars. Or that Tranquil in the chantry.

“Mage?” He said the word quietly, addressing Anders’ back.

The nervous chatter stopped abruptly. The mage turned around. There it was again, that look of apprehension.

“You did not simply kiss me. You said something before.”

“Oh, you know me, I talk a lot…”

Fenris ignored him. “You said if one us was to die, you didn’t want it to be without doing that.” He kept his eyes on the mage’s chin. Saying the words was hard enough. Everything else would have been too much. “Why?”

The chirping of birds, oblivious to the gravity of the situation in their flighty, feathery frolicking, only amplified the silence between them.

At last, the mage sighed. “I don’t know.”

Fenris was just about to resign himself to dropping the subject, convinced this was all he was going to get, when Anders continued, “I was just…the thought of losing you…I couldn’t bear it.”

He tried to keep his voice as even as possible. “I always thought you’d be happy to get rid of me.”

“Well, so did I. Looks like we were both wrong.” As difficult as it was, Fenris lifted his head and met Anders’ eyes. The mage bit his lip. But he didn’t look away when he added, “I thought _you_ would be happy to be rid of me.”

“Evidently, you were wrong.” _And so was I._

“I was also fairly certain you’d rip out my heart for trying to kiss you.”

“And again, you were wrong. It sounds like a habit.”

No bristling, just a soft, barely-there smile. Fenris felt his own lips curl upwards in response.

“You came back to protect me.”

“I did.”

The smile was very there now. “That was incredibly stupid.”

“As I said: I learned from the best.”

Anders’ face lit up even further, eyes caressed by lines, nose hugged by wrinkles, a pattern of kindness, of joy and life. He lifted his hand to Fenris’ face, tracing a finger across his cheek.

“You were almost at the gate, and you had the documents. Why did you come back?”

“You already know. I came back for you.”

“I’d still like to hear why…”

Of course. Words. Everything was words with him, and he always needed more. Yet he found the thought didn’t make him want to roll his eyes. Instead, it broadened his smile.

“Because yet again, we agree on something. I could not bear the thought of losing you.”

A hand on each of his cheeks now, Anders cradled his face in his palms as he bent down, slowly brought their lips together and…waited. No moaning, this time, no desperate sliding and slipping of tongues, just a soft touch, his eyes open and locked on to his, golden and warm and so close it felt at once awkward and wonderful.

No way not to get lost in them now.

He wrapped his arms around Anders’ waist and closed his lips over his.

 

It seemed to have been all the mage needed; he deepened the kiss instantly. Whatever lingering worries that it might take fear of imminent death for Anders to hunger for him Fenris might still have had dissipated within seconds. The mage’s touch was no less desperate than it had been before, his tongue no less greedy, the same breathless moans escaping his lips – until all of a sudden, he pulled back.

Fenris gasped at the sudden lack of warmth, of _mage,_ barely registering Anders’ whispered,

“Fenris…what is this?”

He blinked in confusion “A…kiss?”

“Yes, no, I mean.... _this._ You...and me...and...”

“I...am not certain. It is...new.”

“Alright,” Anders sighed as he leaned in again, lips ghosting over his. “We can figure it out later. It's just... There is... _something_ …right?

“Yes.” Fenris said around a timid smile. There is...something.”

A hint of a nod. “Good.”

And then the mage was all around him, devouring him, igniting him. Everything was heat, heat and _Anders_. He’d had no idea it could feel so safe to be lost.

Or that hands could be so gentle.

 


	8. Snakes in a bar

At last, Kirkwall came into view. Having taken their time with the journey, they were two weeks behind schedule, but they’d agreed that since he’d let them do all the work, Hawke would just have to wait a little longer for his precious documents. They’d been enjoying their nights spent in inns far too much to hurry, and during the days, they’d stuck to a leisurely pace. It was more suited for talking. Or kissing.

And occasionally, bickering. While it turned out a lot can change in a few days, miracles take a tad longer.

As they walked through the gates, Anders looked down at their intertwined hands. It was strange to imagine that by tomorrow, they would be back in the same old rut. Well, hopefully, with a few changes. Especially when it came to rutting… Anders softly shook his head. He was no doubt grinning like a fool, but frankly, he couldn’t have cared less. He was too _happy_. A giggling, bubbly, vibrant happiness that nothing and no one could sour, not the stench of the crowded shithole they called home, not the many difficulties their relationship would undoubtedly face, not even the familiar agitation that had taken hold of Justice the moment they’d set foot in Kirkwall.

Fenris seemed to have read his thoughts. He gave Anders’ hand a soft squeeze, smiling as he asked, in that new, soft tone, where he wanted to go first.

Well, that question was easily answered. In fact, the answer was simple enough it took only a single raised eyebrow to convey it.

“Hanged Man?”

“Hanged Man.”

It was considerably closer to their current location than Hawke’s estate, and given the time of day, there was a good chance Hawke would be there.

Granted, there was a good chance of that at any time of day.

The proud heir to the Amell estate didn’t let them down. They found him in Varric’s suite, sitting around the table with the dwarf, Isabela and Aveline, a tankard of ale in his hand and a broad smile on his face.

“Our brave adventurers have returned! How did it go?”

With as innocent a smile as he could manage, Anders handed him the documents.

“A roaring success! And excellent timing. Saves me a trip to the Keep.” Hawke passed the papers on to Aveline, who looked utterly befuddled. So she’d thought they’d fail. Well, no surprise there.

“You know me, always ready to support your legendary laziness,” Anders said with a little bow. “But alas, we have nothing shiny for you. There were a few…complications.”

“Oh?” Hawke asked, looking from him to Fenris. “Nothing too bad, I hope? Was someone’s dress terribly out of fashion? Did they run out of funny-tasting ham? I want all the juicy details!”

“And while you’re at it, sit down and have a beer. It’s on me.”

Anders refused Varric’s invitation as politely as possible, explaining that all he wanted was to fall straight into bed (not a lie, strictly speaking).

As they gave a quick summary of what had happened, repeatedly assuring the others that they’d get the full story later, Aveline’s frown seemed to deepen with every word.

 

Not only had they turned down an offer of free drinks, they’d also excused themselves in a way that was more than a little suspicious. Claiming they needed to “get cleaned up and rest” despite looking more refreshed than Aveline had ever seen either of them. And rosier, too. Being away from their contaminated dwelling places had obviously done them a world of good, and yet Anders claimed around a ridiculously exaggerated yawn that the whole thing had been “terribly exhausting, quite the ordeal”.

Next to him, Fenris was nodding just a bit too eagerly. “We shall see you later.”

“Will you join us for Wicked Grace tomorrow?” No discussion, no elaborate dramatic reaction? Hawke was up to something.

“Of course. Never miss it.”

“Both of you?” Hawke flashed them a bright smile. Too bright. And Isabela’s grin… They were _both_ up to something.

“Ah…yes…both of us.”

All these shifty gazes, fidgeting hands and shuffling feet… It was obvious they couldn’t wait to get away. What were they not telling them? What else had gone wrong on that mission - a mission they were completely unqualified for and had been sent on _behind her back!_ Whatever mess they had left behind, it made them so eager to get away they didn’t even notice their hands brushing against each other as they squeezed through the door. Well, she would undoubtedly find out sound. Since she would be the one who had to fix it.

Just as she would be the one who had to deal with the consequences of whatever schemes Hawke and Isabela were cooking up.

 

They hurried down the narrow stairs, out the door – and into the alley right next to the building. Finally, they were out of sight, and it was safe to claim Fenris’ mouth, again, and again, and again….

Alright, maybe “safe” wasn’t exactly the right word for making out behind a sleazy Lowtown tavern; they might as well have been holding up a sign saying “I am an idiot who loves getting mugged”. But surely a few minutes could do no harm? Fenris was just impossible to resist, and his mansion was so far away…No one who had at least a shred of compassion could expect them to wait this long to touch.

Just a few more kisses, then they’d head to the mansion. Or his clinic…Although there was little chance they’d get even a minute of privacy there. His patients would probably form a line stretching from one end of Darktown to the next as soon as they spotted him, considering how long they’d had to make do without him…

How many of them had suffered while he had been taking his sweet time; how many lives had been lost…

_No_.

They could wait one more day. And these pangs of guilt could go straight to the Void. He was _happy_. He deserved at least a day of this before he let his responsibilities consume him again.

Or maybe two.

Fenris’ hands were in his hair, tugging at it with just enough force to almost hurt (which he knew perfectly well never failed to drive Anders’ crazy). When Anders finally found the strength to pull back, the elf let out an adorable little whine, all indignation, abandonment, and betrayal.

He playfully bit his nose. “Your place?”

“Since yours is a sewer, yes.”

Anders bit his ear this time, grinning at the sharp breath that followed. “I’ll return the insult later. There are a few other things I’d like to do with you first…”

“Such as?” Green eyes looked up at him, alert and intelligent as always, and now also gleaming with lust and mischief… Andraste’s bursting heart, he was beautiful.

And all Anders could do was gape.

“No words, Mage?” The elf chuckled. “So unlike you.” That rich, rumbling sound… Anders was well and truly lost.

Still didn’t mean he’d just let him have the last word.

“Well, you seem to have found rather efficient ways of shutting me up.” More chuckling, more twinkling, a hand pinching his arse. “It must be…magic.”

There was a brief silence, heavy with tension. Anders bit his lip.

And then Fenris smiled.

 

Upstairs, Hawke stepped away from the window, lowering the finger he’d been pressing against his lips with a satisfied nod. “Alright, they’re done slobbering each other’s faces like excited mabaris.” He plopped back down into his chair. “Pay up, Varric.”

Aveline still couldn’t believe what she had just witnessed. Fenris and…and _Anders_ …. It made no sense at all.

But it did explain Hawke’s behaviour.

Varric dug out a heavy-looking purse, heaving a deep sigh as it changed ownership. When Hawke started to count its contents, she couldn’t hold back any longer.

“You jeopardized an important mission to get your friend laid?!”

He barely looked up from his ill-gotten riches. “No, to get my _friends_ laid. Plural. Completely different situation. And I didn’t ‘jeopardize’ anything. I gave them backup.”

“Speaking of which…As the one who did all the work, I should get an extra share.”

“ _You_ …what!?”

“Where did you think I was the last seven weeks?” Sauntering back to the table, Isabela flashed her a shameless grin. “Or wait, did you not even notice I was gone? That’s hurtful, big girl. Are you going to confess to insulting other women behind my back next?”

“Oh shut up, whore.”

“Aww, thanks Clunkfoot. I always knew I was the only that truly mattered. And I still want a bigger cut.” Her attention was back on Hawke know. Or rather, on the pile of coin in front of him. “I spent weeks following their every step, I kept an eye on them during that whole, boring party, I made sure they got out of their cell, and I lost one of my favourite daggers when I kicked the guards’ arses so they could escape. That new flask works wonders, by the way. Had them out within seconds. Give your man my thanks. And my…appreciation.” She winked at Varric

“I’ll be sure to let him know, Rivaini.”

Hawke shook his head. “I still can’t believe they didn’t notice you.”

“Oh, I can. Trust me, they only had eyes for each other.” Isabela chuckled. “And don’t think you can distract me that easily. Where’s my coin?”

He raised both of his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright, you’ll get that extra cut.”

Well, Aveline wasn’t so easily appeased. “From what I heard they spent _a whole night_ in that cell. Why didn’t you let them out sooner?”

“Because they started cuddling. I was hoping it would lead to more. Well, that was a bust. These spoilsports are _so_ slow. But when I did get the show, it was totally worth the wait…” She trailed off, her eyes glazing over.

Hawke actually _giggled_. “Did they really…in a clearing? In broad daylight?”

Apparently, Isabela had already shared every single filthy detail. No fucking surprise there.

“Oh yes. Not an ounce of shame, those two. And they’re noisy, too!”

“Seems they’ve been busy. Probably why they took their sweet time getting here. I mean, you’ve been back for over a week…And while we’re discussing their failures, please tell me _you_ managed to get something shiny for me?

“Of course. And something pointy for me. You’ll get yours as soon as _I_ get my coin.”

Alright, that did it. Not-quite-legally obtaining proof for a plot that was illegal in itself was one thing, but _this_ …

“You _stole_ from him?”

“Taking from bad people isn’t stealing. It’s a moral obligation.”

She’d had it with him and his jokes. Here he was, playing at being their leader. The mighty Hawke. The Duke was powerful. _Dangerous_. A good leader didn’t send untrained men into danger. And certainly not for his personal entertainment.

“Hawke, I trusted you when you said you would take care of this. And _they_ trusted you too. This isn’t a game. They could have gotten themselves killed…or inadvertently started a civil war...” Flexing her fists in agitation, she forced herself to take a calming breath. Perhaps she was being too harsh. He did, after all, seem genuinely invested in their happiness. Disturbing as the thought was, this might well be his idea of ‘helping’. She mellowed her tone a little, but kept her arms firmly crossed in front of her chest. “If you wanted to get them together, why did you have to make it so complicated? And not to mention _dangerous_. You could have just sent them somewhere to pick up some meaningless delivery and bribed a few innkeepers to stuff them into rooms with just one bed…”

“Uuuh, did Manhands just say ‘bribe’?”

As always, Isabela was not impressed by her stern glower. Hawke, on the other hand, had the decency to at least squirm in his seat

“That wouldn’t have worked. Come on, you know how stubborn they are. They’d probably _both_ have ended up sleeping on the floor, simply to have the last word. No, they needed time together, to really _work_ together. Several weeks of forced collaboration seemed like a good idea. Well, at least at the time. I never considered…I mean, how could I have expected them to screw up _this_ royally?”

“Trust me, they left out the best parts,” Isabela chimed in. “They literally sang a song about being spies in front of the whole party. More than once.”

“See, you can’t make this shit up. No one would believe me if I put that in a book.” Varric shook his head with a sigh and a glum look at his lost coin.

“It’s a miracle they actually managed to obtain your papers in all this chaos. By the way,” Hawke turned to Isabela, “do you have any idea why Anders couldn’t stop giggling when he handed them to me?”

Isabela’s eyes flicked over to her for just a second before she gave Hawke her sweetest (and, in Aveline’s experience, fakest) smile. “Oh, you know, love makes people giggly.”

“ _Love_?” She had to have heard that wrong.

“Why am I not surprised you didn't notice...Oh, by the way, how's guardsman Donnic?”

“Wh..what? Why would you ask…How do you even know that name?”

All she got for her helpless, mortifying spluttering was a wink.

“Something I should know about?” Hawke looked genuinely confused, thank the Maker.

Another sweet smile. This time, Aveline was grateful for it. “Oh, it’s nothing. Don’t worry your pretty, magnificently-bearded head about it.”

“ _Right_...” Not good…He didn’t look convinced. And why was Varric grabbing his pen?! “But Fenris and Anders…” Hawke chuckled. “Come on, Aveline, even I could see that coming from a mile away...And I'm not exactly the fastest to pick up on these things.”

“You don't say.”

“Insulted! By my most trusted general!”

“You trust me?” Isabela snorted. “Not very smart.”

As Hawke mimed clutching at an arrow piercing his chest, Aveline quietly rolled her eyes. _Children_. For someone who’d never wanted any, she sure had a habit of picking them up.

“Since you two obviously already know every single thing that happened between them, why didn’t you confront them about it?”

“And spoil the fun?”

“ _Hawke_ …”

“Relax, my righteous Captain of order and virtue, it’s not _only_ about that. You know how they get when they feel cornered. And how much Fenris values his privacy. Let them decide when they’re ready.” His grin was completely devoid of shame. “Watching them squirm and laughing behind their backs is just an added bonus.”

That…did sound like fun, actually. And in all honesty, it wasn’t like these two didn’t deserve it. In both the good and the bad sense.

“Alright, Hawke. Have it your way. I won’t say anything. But you’ll pay for my next drink.”

“Am I ever _not_ paying for your ‘next drink’?”

“Well, now that you ask… Refresh my memory, have I ever arrested you? As I recall, there was this case of _very_ public indecency just last week…”

“…I’ll get Norah.”


	9. Epilogue

In the early hours of morning, Anders quietly made his way up the stairs in Fenris’ mansion, carefully avoiding the creaking steps.

_Sneaking_. They’d been doing a lot of that lately. Perhaps it was time they finally told their friends? It had been almost a year now; this wasn’t just a fling. It was serious. Real. And while Anders couldn’t deny that keeping their relationship hidden came with its perks – the thrill of making out in the next room, the satisfaction of getting away with yet another ridiculous lie – he wanted to finally be able to kiss his elf during Wicked Grace. To rush to his side when he got knocked down in battle and not hide his tears of relief when he found him alive.

He sidestepped the loose floorboards at the top of the stairs before they got a chance to ruin his surprise. Surely, Fenris wouldn’t mind telling the others? The elf loved him, had even _said_ he did. Anders hadn’t thought he’d ever hear those words again, and most certainly not from Fenris. For years, he had believed them lost, annihilated with Karl’s last breath. And it _had_ taken time. But a few weeks ago, Fenris had said them, casually, like it was the most natural thing in the word. And he had said _forever_. A promise no one truly had the power to make – another painful lesson learned that night – but Fenris _wanted_ it. That was all Anders could ask for. It was enough. And it should be enough to…make it official.

“If it means that much to you, Mage, why not. We shall tell them.” As he approached the door to Fenris’ bedroom, he could picture it perfectly, down to every last detail. A slight nod, his voice tinged with amusement, and that soft, indulgent smile. The smile he used to hide how much things meant to _him_. He always blushed so endearingly when Anders bent to kiss it away.

He would ask him. Later. First, there was the matter of how to best wake him up. Caresses, kisses, crawling up against him, perhaps some under the covers action? He just couldn’t decide…

  

Behind the heavy oaken door, Fenris buried his nose in his pillow with a smile.

His mage was truly useless at stealth.

 


End file.
